Our Festering Hopes
by Troy1990
Summary: In this noirish tale a detective tries to solve a murder in pre-war Nazi Germany.  The closer Johan gets to unravelling the serpentine plot, the more the layers of intrigue thicken...  Soon Johan realises there's more than just his life at stake...
1. Into the Void

Our Festering Hopes

Chapter One

It was a dreary morning, and the clouds rolled ponderously across the steel-grey sky, pregnant with the threat of impending rain. The cold bite of the wind was enough to make Johan tighten the scarf around his neck. But none of this mattered to him, for he was in high spirits.

Today was his first day at work since his promotion. Lieutenant Müller, it did have a nice ring to it, he mused to himself as he strolled down the street. The road was flanked on either side by rows of townhouses; these sanctuaries of the wealthy were uniform in appearance. Each had a neat little lawn enclosed by a corrugated iron fence. Now and then a street vendor was to be seen setting up his stall for the day's bargaining.

Johan had always enjoyed an early morning walk through Berlin. Though the streets weren't exactly paved with gold it was a living, breathing, vibrant city and he took an almost voyeuristic pleasure from observing all the little details and the routines of the people going about their daily activities.

He saw businessmen scurrying about to their appointments, women hurrying off to do some errand, shopkeepers taking deliveries of stock and of course frustrated drivers running late. The air was constantly abuzz with the drone of traffic and the chatter of passerby and occasionally the spicy aroma of soup or the rich scent of coffee could be detected as Johan passed the myriad of cafés. Perhaps it was this element of the voyeur in him that made Johan so good at his job.

Carried on the breeze were a few strains of a violin. Johan turned a corner to see the musician, a ragged tramp wearing a shabby and tattered suit seated on the pavement. His dark hair and beard were wild and unkempt and were tinged with grey. Johan stopped and joined the small throng of onlookers appreciating the music. It was a mournful tune and Johan had to admit the man had skill; he could almost make the instrument weep.

When the song finished, Johan clapped along with the rest, then approached the man. A foetid blast of alcohol and stale body odour assaulted his nostrils as he got closer. Vagrancy was illegal under the new regime, and indeed ever since the crackdown before the recent Berlin Olympics it was rare to see a homeless person at all. He must've only started living on the streets recently.

Johan showed his identification,

"All right, get up. Move on out of here."

The man turned resentful eyes up at him, and shuffled to his feet.

Johan noticed that he was barefoot,

"Here," he said, proffering some Reichsmarks.

"Get a pair of shoes, and some food too."

A gnarled hand extended and secreted the banknotes inside his threadbare jacket.

The man muttered his thanks around a toothless grin and was on his way,

Johan knew that technically speaking he should have arrested the fellow and had him brought down to the station, but he didn't feel like it.

The poor bastard has enough troubles without me adding to them he thought to himself.

He crossed the road through a gap in the line of cars and cyclists, stepping over a rainbow smear of spilt oil as he did so. The window of a butcher shop allowed him to catch a fleeting reflection of himself as he walked by. He was tall and lean with a chiselled jaw and flinty ice-blue eyes, wearing a black pin-striped suit. A trenchcoat, scarf and black fedora completed the outfit. His hair was worn short but as long as regulations would allow.

Finally his destination came into view. The police station towered over the surrounding buildings like a giant among dwarves. It was made entirely of white stone and supported by colossal pillars to symbolise the firm, unyielding nature of the law (Johan supposed). On both sides of the heavy mahogany doors hung huge red banners, depicting the national symbol; the swastika, within a white circle.

Johan ascended the stairs and entered the imposing edifice. The interior was no less grand; the vast entrance hall had fine marble tiling on the floor with an aesthetically pleasing mosaic in the center. The effect he thought, almost made the place resemble a cathedral. This early in the morning with only a handful of policemen and clerks around, an audidble ticking could be heard from the antique wooden clock hanging from the roof. On the far wall was a large portrait of Adolf Hitler, surveying those who entered. The metaphor was clear; nothing could get by the Führer's baleful gaze.

Johan himself was ambivalent about the Nazis. He hadn't forgotten that just a few short years ago they had been considered dangerous radicals; he'd even been tasked with investigating several of them. He wasn't too sure about their racial policies, but they had a no-nonsense stance on law and order which appealed to him.

Crime had certainly gone down since they were elected. Also Johan was inclined to support the efforts to regain territory lost after the Great War, and the economic strategies to make Germany a leading power once more.

"Good morning, Johan.

Congratulations on the promotion."

Johan turned to regard the speaker; it was Major Metzger, the Gestapo liaison officer for the station.

He was an unassuming, bespectacled man of about thirty-five, clean-shaven and dressed in his grey service uniform with white shirt and black tie.

Metzger spent most of his time behind a desk but on occasion, whenever he was bored of the office went out in the field.

"Hello, sir. Thank you."

"Long overdue, if you ask me," said Metzger with a little smile.

After a few minutes worth of small talk, Johan realised he had rather a lot of time to kill before he came on duty.

"Have you seen Clara around?"

Clara Timmermann was the chief's secretary and his best friend here.

He had recently seen Alfred Hitchcock's _The Lady Vanishes_ on her recommendation, and was keen to debate the subtleties of the film over a coffee as was their custom.

"No, I'm afraid not. She rang in sick yesterday though.

May not be in again today."

Johan nodded.

"I'd love to stay here chatting with you Johan, but I really must be going. This paperwork won't do itself" he said genially, hefting the briefcase in his left hand.

"Here, have my newspaper. I'm finished with it anyway."

Johan accepted the paper and bid the Major farewell.

He glanced over the headlines; Czechoslovakia set to be annexed by Germany, new law passed forbidding Jews to marry Germans and a warning about very bad weather which was expected to cause major disruption. Johan didn't really take much of it in; he was too busy wondering if he should call over to Clara after work.

If truth be told he wished she was more than a friend. Intelligent, charming, vivacious and possessed with a rapier wit, in short she ticked all the right boxes.

And that was before one considered her shapely body, luxurious raven hair and soft porcelain skin. Johan had dropped a few hints, but she was depressingly devoted to her loser of a boyfriend.

Crossing the hall came von dem Bach, the chief, to interrupt his thoughts. He was a middle-aged man, broad in the shoulder and his azure eyes held a spark of cunning. He wore the standard grey-green police uniform, militaristic in cut and he walked with a noticeable limp. He was accompanied by another, unfamiliar man.

"Ah, Johan it's good to see you. I'd like you to meet Hans Bauer" said von dem Bach, indicating his companion.

Bauer extended his hand,

"It's a pleasure to meet you Lieutenant," he said with a cordial nod.

He was young, blonde, of average height, but athletically built and was distinctly square-jawed.

Like Johan, Bauer was dressed in a smart civilian suit.

Unlike him, he had a small swastika badge pinned to his lapel, signifying party membership.

"Bauer here has just transferred from uniformed police to plain clothes. I'd like you to work with him, show him all the tricks. And I daresay you'll have ample opportunity to do just that."

Von dem Bach's expression darkened and his heavy mustache seemed to droop as he continued,

"A body has been found over on the outskirts, near Friedrichstrasse. I want you two to go down there and check it out."

"Do you have any details for me, sir?

Von dem Bach shook his head,

"At this time, no. The report just came in."

"Hmm, all right then, we'll take a look."

"Well, don't let me keep you gentlemen. You're in good hands Bauer," said the chief, clapping the younger man on the back.

Johan was about to point out that his shift hadn't officially started yet, but von dem Bach was already halfway across the room. The chief was something of a workholic, and expected his men to share his zeal for the job. Maybe this'll count as overtime and they'll pay me acordingly, he thought somewhat optimistically to himself.

Johan sighed,

"I suppose we might as well go now."

"Right you are sir, I can hardly wait."

This was no exaggeration; he practically had a spring in his step.

The enthusiasm he had had earlier on seemed to evaporate from Johan.

If playing nursemaid to snot-nosed rookies was the sole duty his promotion entailed, he wouldn't be overjoyed at the prospect. He got the impression that this Bauer was the type who was in danger of losing his arm every time he wiped his arse.

Johan struck a match and lit a cigarette, offering one to Bauer, who declined.

He inhaled deeply, savouring the acrid flavour. There was truly nothing in the world like the first cigarette of the day, he noted. Bauer kept pace with Johan's long stride as they walked through the stuffy corridors in the bowels of the building.

"Chief von dem Bach tells me he served with you in the war."

"Yeah, the old son of a bitch even saved my life."

Johan took a perverse pleasure in seeing Bauer's scandalised reaction to hearing his superior referred to in such a way.

"That's how he got the limp, pulling me out of No Man's Land."

"He says you've got all sorts of medals."

Johan wondered if Bauer was going to ask him for his autograoph. He felt like an actor being cooed at by an adoring fan.

"Is it true you won the Iron Cross?"

"Yeah."

Bauer looked positively awestruck now.

"How'd you earn it?

"I don't like talking about it."

His time as a soldier had changed him, of that there was no doubt. Even now years later he'd find himself jumping at loud noises. Sometimes he'd get flashbacks, so vivid he almost felt like he was back in the trenches again. There were physical reminders too; the missing finger on his left hand; a memento from a burst of shrapnel, and the scar on his stomach; a grisly souvenir from the French bullet that had almost sent him from this world. He still had that bullet, he always kept it in his pocke for luck.

Mercifully Bauer subsided as they reached the garage. It was a wide, subterranean room that contained the precinct's motor pool, deserted save for a few themselves with the vehicles. The ramp at the far end led out onto the street, sounds, and the cool, clear air from outside wafted in. An occasionally flickering lightbulb lent a tone of dejection to the place.

Johan pulled open the door to his car; a sleek, black, Mercedes-Benz with a hard top roof and settled down behind the wheel. There was a rich smell of leather from the fancy upholstery he'd had put in. Bauer sat down beside him in the passenger seat. Johan winced at the harsh way he slammed the door behind him. He turned the ignition and the engine sputtered into life.

"Lieutenant, I just want to say how honoured I am to be working with you. I've really heard a lot about you."

By now they'd driven up the ramp and were gliding through the avenues and streets above.

"Yeah? Nice things I hope?"

"Of course. They say you're like a bloodhound, that you always have a knack for solving difficult cases."

Johan couldn't tell if he was trying to flatter him or if "they" actually did say those things about him.

"I look forward to learning all I can from you."

Before responding Johan flicked his cigarette butt out the window,

"I'm not sure how much you can teach exactly. Some things you either have or you don't."

"What do you mean?"

"Well it takes a hell of a lot of patience for one thing, and in my experience, more often than not there's a hefty slice of luck involved. A lot of times it's not even down to you, it's more about the suspect being sloppy and making a mistake."

Bauer chuckled,

"Now I think you're selling yourself short. I've always thought policework was about the process, you know how you approach things-"

"Hey, you know when they told you I was like a bloodhound and all that?

"Yes."

"Did they also tell you I hate babysitting rookies who talk too much?"

"Uh, no," came the uncertain reply.

Then a short pause,

"Do you?"

Johan took his eyes off the road and fixed him with a withering stare,

"Well we'll just have to find that out together, won't we?" he said with a twisted smirk. In spite of himself Johan found he was beginning to warm to the boy, though that wouldn't stop him from baiting him now and again.

The promised rain had arrived and droplets began to coalesce on the windscreen. They had left the shops and restaurants in the city centre behind and now found themselves surrounded by drab warehouses and factories whose chimneys relentlessly belched smog into the cloudy sky.

"We're here," said Johan, bringing the car to a halt with a crunch of gravel.

The noise compelled a solitary magpie into flight. The two men got out and flashed their credentials to the SS man standing guard on the perimeter of the crime scene.

He saluted and allowed them through.

They were in the shadow of a sizable building. Perhaps it had one day been an industrial plant of some sort, but those days were surely far in the past. Now it stood dilapidated and forlorn, the wire fences that enclosed it were rusty, and machinery lay abandoned and forgotten in its dusty yard. Rainfall drizzled through the holes in its roof, and Johan was certain its only inhabitants were the pigeons that had made their roost in its crumbling rafters.

Off to the side there was a culvert of sorts, evidently uesd for drainage when this facility was still operational. It was here that a man in the sinister black uniform of the SS was beckoning them over. The red swastika armband around his tricep supplied a splash of colour to the dismal scene.

As they approached he clicked his heels together smartly and brought his arm up in salute,

"Heil Hitler!"

"Heil. I'm Lieutenant Müller, and this is Detective Bauer."

"Nice to meet you, my name is Steiner. Sergeant Steiner. Well we're not here to make small talk, so let's get right to it," he said brusquely.

"I suppose you'll want to see the stiff? Follow me please."

Steiner led them down into the culvert. It contained a large copper pipe on one side, and the ground was littered with rubbish and discarded trinkets. The walls and floor were coated with some foul smelling sludge; Johan wrinkled his nose in disgust and found himself envying Steiner's long heavy boots as he squelched along. Roughly in the middle was a prone figure with a canvas sheet draped over it. On one end of the sheet was a wide crimson stain.

"Victim is a young woman," Steiner informed them.

"You didn't move the body did you?" asked Bauer.

Perhaps there was hope for him yet thought Johan.

Steiner shook his head, sending raindrops flying from his steel helmet.

"Well do you have any idea who she is?"

"Oh yes, we found all the proper documentation" said Steiner handing Johan an I.D.

Johan looked down at the name, and let out a gasp.

Clara Timmermann.

He leaned down and pulled the canvas open.

"I wouldn't"-began Steiner.

Johan looked and recoiled in horror, almost immediately thrusting the sheet back into place. The sight was at least the equal of anything he'd seen on the killing fields of Ypres and Verdun.

He felt the bile rise in his throat.

Clara's eyes; the colour of Italian coffee were gone, and so too were the full, ruby lips he'd all too often imagined entwined around his own. In their place was only a grotesque, bloody, caved-in ruin of flesh, bone and muscle tissue.

Johan turned away from the other two men, an overpowering wave of despair washed over him. He felt like a part of him had been hacked away and cruelly expunged. Through the pain and the sorrow he vowed to find whoever did this, and ensure they got what was coming to them.

* * *

**Author's Note**

I didn't know where to put this story so I just threw it in under Saving Private Ryan for the time being.  
Basically I'm just setting the scene here and I'll try and put up another chapter soon.  
I'm new to this site so I'd really welcome any reviews or feedback.


	2. Desolation

Our Festering Hopes

Chapter Two

Johan stood over to the side, away from the others, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. His hands were trembling, and he could barely strike the match. Finally his recalcitrant fingers did what he asked of them, and he took a long shuddering drag. The nicotine did little to calm him and his hands still shook uncontrollably, ever since the war had ended this happened to him from time to time.

They were still at the crime scene, with that miserable, decomposing husk of a building looming over them to the side, the rain lashing them from above and the cloying stench of decay all around them. That old refinery or whatever it once was, about summed up how Johan felt, battered, falling apart and hollow inside. The news of Clara's death had hit him like a cudgel to the gut. But he was a professsional, and right now he had a job to do. With an effort of will he tried to push the maelstrom of emotions aside, out of the way for now. He was not entirely successful, but the shock had worn off and he was at least able to function to some modest extent. There would be time to grieve later.

"You knew her, didn't you?"

The noise startled Johan; he was so consumed in his thoughts that he hadn't even heard Bauer approach.

He was silent for a time,

"Yeah".

Bauer's face crinkled in concern.

"Are you all right?" he enquired, his body language betraying the awkwardness he felt.

"Yeah, fine."

Bauer looked down at Johan's still trembling hands, but said nothing.

Johan cleared his throat self-consciously,

"Well, uh, what can you tell me about the scene? Any clues?"

"None that I could see" said Bauer with a shrug, all business once again. "Now I wouldn't bet my life on it, but if I had to guess I'd say she was killed somewhere else and the body dumped here. With massive trauma like that, you'd expect there to be more blood."

"Yes, she was definitely murdered somewhere else."

"But how can we say for certain?"

"Elementary, my dear Bauer," quipped Johan, trying to seem calm and in control. "In the dirt over there, footprints, and an outline behind as if of something heavy being dragged."

Bauer took a closer look,

"It's very faint."

"I know, and this rain isn't doing us any favours. Still, it might help our investigation."

By this time they were both thoroughly soaked by the downpour, and like distant cannonfire the ominous rumble of thunder could be heard rolling down from the far reaches of the sky. An incessant stream of raindrops dribbled down from Johan's fedora onto his shoulders, and from there onto the dirty ground.

"Steiner was telling me there's no obvious motive. There was money in her handbag, so robbery is out. Also no signs of sexual assault," said Bauer.

His voice was almost drowned out; such was the clamour of the rain and the sporadic roar of thunder.

"Lieutenant there's sommething else, about the girl, all her teeth are missing. Why do you think that could be?" asked Bauer, looking pale and a bit rattled.

Johan put his hand to his head, he felt queasy at the thought of this new mutilation.

He sighed, trying not to think of what Clara must have endured,

"Some killers like to take something from their victims, like a trophy of sorts. By doing that it helps them re-live their crimes."

Bauer shook his head,

"You think it was a random killing? Some lone lunatic perhaps?"

Johan didn't respond, by now Clara's boyfriend had been summoned to confirm the identity of the body. Surely a next to impossible task, such were the grievous nature of her injuries.

He had never liked Paul Scharnhorst and got the impression the other man was resentful whenever he and Clara spent time together. Johan had frequently wondered what it was exactly she had seen in him. He was a tall, gaunt fellow, sallow skinned, and missing one of his front teeth, he was perpetually unshaven and his slightly receding dark hair always seemed to be in need of a wash. His countenance with its somewhat upturned nose and restless, beady eyes had always reminded Johan of that of a rodent.

If his appearance seemed unsavoury, his past was even more so. Scharnhorst, a former morphine addict had in the past indulged in petty crime and done time for assault. After he'd been caught burglarising a doctor's clinic in search of drugs, he'd resolved to turn over a new leaf and mend his ways. Nowadays he held gainful employment as a train station janitor; though Johan was still not completely convinced he had left his old life behind.

One night a few months back Clara had come to his house in tears after an argument with Scharnhorst, apparently it had escalated beyond words and the black eye she was nursing was a clear testament to his fierce temper. It had taken every sinew of Johan's self control to stay his hand, when Clara pleaded with him not to beat Scharnhorst to a bloody pulp. Grudgingly he had relented, the lovers had seemingly reconciled and no more was said about the incident.

Ever since that night Johan had considered Scharnhorst to be a lowlife of the highest order. He found it incredible that a woman like Clara would even be seen in public with a societal dreg like Scharnhorst, let alone fall for his dubious charms. Perhaps love truly is blind after all.

Looking over, Johan saw Steiner and Scharnhorst standing over the body. Was it just him or was there a hollowness in Scharnhorst's lamentations, or an element of the theatrical in his sobs? He couldn't be sure, but Johan was well aware of the fact that most murder victims knew their killer well.

"Let's make our way back into the fold, shall we?" said Johan, inhaling the last of his cigarette before tossing it down and grinding it out under his boot.

He approached the two men, his head bowed against the rain, while Bauer followed in his wake.

Scharnhorst was hunched over the body, the tears rolling freely down his face and intermingling with the rainwater. His face was contorted into a grief-stricken mask. By contrast Steiner stood like a totem, still as a statue, his features as emotionless as if they had been carved out of a slab of granite.

"Jesus Christ! What have they done to her?" wailed Scharnhorst.

"So you're sure it's her then?" asked Steiner, scribbling into his notebook with a stubby pencil.

"What does it look like? Of course I'm fucking sure."

"Settle down, I'm just doing my job," replied Steiner disinterestedly.

Scharnhorst, glowered at the other man,

"All right, yes I'm sure, I wish I wasn't but I am."

He exhaled sharply,

"I...I can't tell much by the face, but those are her clothes and her stuff in the handbag."

Steiner grunted an assent and recorded the details.

"We'll take it from here Sergeant, have the coroner come and collect the body and send your report down to the station as soon as possible," said Johan.

"Yes sir."

At this Steiner bustled off to carry out the orders.

Scharnhorst's expression grew even more sour if that was possible, when he caught sight of Johan. He regarded the other man with distaste, as if looking upon a slice of mouldy bread.

This close Scharnhorst looked tired, haggard and unkempt, his shirt was creased, the leather jacket he was wearing lacked several buttons and his boots were scuffed and well-worn. The hair was plastered to his head due to the rain and his eyes were red-rimmed from the tears.

"Hello Müller."

Johan nodded a greeting,

"I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Yeah I bet you are."

Johan looked straight into Scharnhorst's dull jade coloured eyes,

"Detective Bauer and I would like to ask you a few questions down at the station."

"I suppose I don't have much choice in the matter?"

"No," said Johan curtly.

Nine hours later and Johan no longer suspected Scharnhorst might be guilty, he was assured of it. He'd been around long enough to know when a suspect was hiding something and Scharnhorst was displaying all the signs. The man was acting more nervous than a Rabbi at a Hitler Youth meeting. His whole demeanor just seemed wrong, and his curious habit of looking at the walls and ceiling, rather than maintaining eye contact only seemed to underline the insincerity of his words. So far Scharnhorst had refused to sign a confession, but Johan was convinced that he would soon break and admit to the crime. They always did.

In the morning when he'd first brought Scharnhorst in, von dem Bach had taken Johan aside and asked him if he was sure he wanted the case. If he found it too difficult to handle, he understood and wouldn't think any less of him. Johan had responded that this was something he felt he had to do. Von dem Bach had nodded and left it at that, for which Johan was grateful. He liked to think there was a mutual respect between the two of them.

Johan shifted his position on the chair and looked over the steel table to where Scharnhorst was sitting opposite him. The interrogation room was sparse, bare concrete walls and floor and devoid of furniture save for the table, some chairs and an uncomfortable metal stool where Scharnhorst sat sullenly with his arms crossed.

"Your alibi is very flimsy," said Johan. Under the stark lighting he could almost see the other man sweat. "You say you went into a pub on Alexanderplatz after work, stayed there a few hours and then went home to bed. Why is it that no one saw you there?"

Scharnhorst was rubbing his scruffy little goatee,

"I don't know. Why would they remember me? I kept to myself."

"I would think one of the bartenders at least, might recall serving you, seeing as you stayed for quite a while."

"Well maybe I just have one of those faces that blend right into the crowd, y'know?"

"Are you in the habit of drinking alone in the middle of the week?"

"Now and then I like to have a few beers after a hard day's work, yeah. I wasn't aware that was a crime," returned Scharnhorst testily.

Just then Bauer walked into the room. "We have some papers we'd like you to sign," said Johan, as Bauer thrust a sheaf of documents onto the tabletop. Scharnhorst cast an eye over them and scanned through the contents,

"Are you fucking crazy? I'm not going to sign that."

Form B-12 allowed for the suspect to be detained at a work camp, until such time as the authorites saw fit. Unusually, without the accused's signature the police were unable to implement this power. Bauer caught Johan's eye, who shook kis head almost imperceptibly.

So he wasn't as clueless as he'd first seemed thought Johan. It was not uncommon for an officer to forge the signature or else simply beat the suspect until they signed. These instances were hardly ever investigated and unless the chief found out, there were rarely any consequences for the individual. Johan disliked these tactics however, and had never before resorted to them. Iif he was honest with himself, if all else failed he might have to make an exception for Scharnhorst. But he would at least try the normal methods first.

"We'll discuss that later. You might change your mind," said Johan.

Bauer sat down beside him and started taking notes on the interview.

"Not fucking likely," sneered Scharnhorst. "This is ridiculous, you bring me in here, ask me the same questions for hours on end, deprive me of food and water, and all this without a shred of evidence! I mean do I not at least get a lawyer or something?"

"You haven't been officially charged with anything yet, so no lawyer is required."

"Then why the hell am I still here?" shouted Scharnhorst.

"Because we're not finished with you yet," growled Johan, the tone in his voice making it clear there was no room for argument.

"Can I at least have a cigarette then?" he queried, as Johan lit one up for himself.

"No."

Scharnhorst muttered a curse then subsided into moody silence, rant apparently over.

"About that shotgun we found in your house, what exactly did you need it for?" asked Johan, deciding to try another tack.

"I've told you that already, I like to get out of the city and go hunting whenever I get the chance. Look you know I have all the proper permits for it" said Scharnhorst exasperatedly.

"And how long did you say you had it for?"

"I'd say about a year" replied Scharnhorst, fiddling with a loose button on his cuff.

Bauer spoke up,

"You said you bought it from Schulz's place on Horst Wessel Boulevard, correct?"

"Yes."

"Well that's interesting, because we've checked with him, and he says he only sold it to you last week. Now why would he say a thing like that?"

Bauer had done his homework thought Johan approvingly, we'll just need to lean on him a little more and he would surely break. If Scharnhorst had looked jittery before, he looked positively nauseous with anxiety now.

"All right I know how this looks, I realise it seems very suspicious but I only lied because I knew you've got it in for me Müller. It was stupid, I wasn't thinking straight, I mean this is all such a big shock, I didn't know what to do. I don't know if this is a setup or something, but you gotta believe me you've got the wrong man!"

All bravado abandoned, the words tumbled over each other, flooding from his mouth like water from a burst dam.

Johan fixed him with a piercing stare,

"You might as well confess, the judge may show you leniency."

"Why would I kill her? Just the thought of it makes me sick. Clara meant the world to me, I loved her with every inch of my heart. Now that she's gone, I don't know what I'll do."

Scharnhorst's voice had risen several octaves, and all colour had drained from his face, so that the sallow skin now resembled paper.

"Yeah well, love can make you do funny things. Maybe you didn't even intend to do it; maybe you just lost your temper. It happens to all of us. "

All the while Johan was speaking, Scharnhorst was shaking his head in denial.

"I think you had an argument and things got out of control, I mean it wouldn't be the first time, you hit her before remember? Maybe this time you just snapped."

"No, I know I hit her before, that was a mistake and it still tears me up inside. There's no excuse for it and I can never be forgiven, but the man I was then is different to the one I am now. I've changed and I'm never going to go back to that." Such was the look of shame on Scharnhorst's face as he said this, that in spite of everything Johan almost found himself believing his words.

Almost.

"How do we know you've changed? Are you still on morphine?"

"No, I've been clean for sx months now."

Paradoxically, Scharnhorst seemed to derive strength from the accusation. He leaned closer to Johan, jabbing a finger in his direction.

"Let me tell you something Müller, I'm sick of you looking down on me like I'm a piece of shit under your shoe. You think you're better than me, don't you?"

"I know I am."

"Oh really? Answer me this then, d'you think Clara ever gave a damn about you? The poor fucked up war hero, don't make me laugh. No, she only tolerated you being around because she felt sorry for you," said Scharnhorst with a contemptuous smirk. "The truth is you envied me."

At this Johan's fist lashed out, catching Scharnhorst square on the jaw. His head jerked back and he tumbled onto the floor in a heap. Before he knew it his chair toppled down behind him and Johan was on his feet with Bauer struggling to hold him back.

"Seems like I touched a nerve," said Scharnhorst, wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth.

Just then the door opened and von dem Bach entered at this most inopportune of times. He took in the whole scene in an instant, and motioned for Johan to come outside, like a disapproving teacher catching a schoolboy talking in class. They walked out into the corridor and the door had hardly closed behind them before von dem Bach rounded on him,

"What the hell are you doing in there?" he hissed.

Johan tried to conjure up a valid excuse, but his mind failed him.

"I'm sorry sir, he provoked me," he said sheepishly, mentally kicking himself for losing his temper.

Von dem Bach's bushy eyebrows shot up,

"And that's supposed to make it all right then? Look I wasn't born yesterday, I know what goes on, but you know damn well I don't run my precinct like that."

Johan felt like an ant being scorched through a magnifying glass, under von dem Bach's atrophying gaze.

"I expected better from you, Johan."

That solemn, softly spoken statement hit him harder than any shout of rage ccould have.

"I know sir, it won't happen again," said Johan, his cheeks burning red.

"I should hope not."

Von dem Bach let him squirm on the hook for a little longer before continuing,

"I came down to tell you I want Scharnhorst released."

Johan was stunned, the chief had never interfered like this in a case before.

"With all due respect sir I don't think you know enough about-"

Von dem Bach held up a hand for silence,

"I've read the report, and I also spoke to Bauer. He tells me you've kept a man in there for nine hours, and denied him food and legal counsel. Where's the evidence to warrant that? The footprint you found at the crime scene wasn't a match."

"That was inconclusive; it was only because of the rain that we couldn't verify it was him. Listen, you always told me to go with my gut instincts, and right now they're telling me Scharnhorst is guilty as sin."

Von dem Bach brushed him off,

"Nonsense. Do you know what I think? I think you hold a grudge, and you're jealous of this Scharnhorst character because you were besotted with that Timmermann girl."

"Now wait just a minute-"

Von dem Bach interrupted him again, this time letting real anger seep into his voice.

"Oh for Christ sake Johan, it was obvious. The whole station could tell."

"Well that-"

"If you can't keep personal feelings separate from the job, I'll have no choice but to suspend you."

"Hey, just let me fucking talk for a second will you?"

The chief's eyes flashed dangerously at this disrespect, but Johan knew that even though von dem Bach was mad at him now, he was probably one of the only people who could get away with it. After all they did go back a long way.

"Scharnhorst is hiding something, he lied about that shotgun. It could very well be the murder weapon, he's this close to cracking and you want to set him free."

"Of course we won't rule him out. We'll do all the usual tests and if the evidence is there we'll pick him up again. Shouldn't be too hard, he doesn't seem like the sharpest tool in the shed, and I'll make sure that if he leaves the city we'll know about it," said von dem Bach, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

"I just don't want anyone coerced into signing a false confession that's all. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?"

Johan could see that von dem Bach would not budge. The man was an idealist of sorts when it came to law enforcement, unlike many others he was sickened by recent excesses committed by the police, and did his best to ensure that suspects would be treated fairly.

When it came to police brutality most other high ranking officials would look the other way, but von dem Bach was different.

His expression softened,

"Johan you've done enough for one day, go home get some rest. Bauer and I will take care of everything."

He was shooing him away like an unwanted guest, thought Johan derisively.

So much for mutual respect.


	3. A New Lead

Our Festering Hopes

Chapter Three

Johan didn't go home, instead he went to a tavern. The Bleeding Goblin was a dive, small, dark and dingy, but nonetheless Johan was a frequent patron. He enjoyed the feeling of anonymity it provided, compared to some of the more popular, boisterous establishments. In places such as this you wouldn't be bothered by anyone and could be left to your own devices.

Johan wouldn't consider himself to be an alcoholic, far from it, often nothing stronger than water or coffee would touch his lips for weeks on end. But when he was feeling depressed or if the pressures of the job got too much, he found solace in the bottle. He'd been here quite a while now, the empty glasses in front of him testified to that fact. He knew it must be nightfall by now, not that much sunlight ever penetrated the dirty, stained-glass windows here.

Time for another drink thought Johan. He was slouched up at the bar, and the rickety stool creaked in protest as he leaned forward, the pretty barmaid raised her eyebrows in surprise as he ordered yet another Cointreau. But she served him anyway and Johan flicked a five Reichsmark note onto the sticky tabletop, with a muttered word of thanks. He'd developed a taste for the exotic liqeuer during the war, after liberating a crate of it that was doubtless bound for some general. It was expensive, but in addition to his salary the State paid a generous monthly instalment to veterans like himself, which allowed his budget to cover such small extravagances. He inspected the glass, clean enough he decided, before taking a sip. Johan had learned the hard way it was wise to check here, once he had been unfortunate enough to find a drowned spider lurking in the bottom of his drink.

Alcohol dulled the anguish he felt over Clara's murder somewhat, but he knew it would be all too soon before sobriety opened the wound again. Ensuring the culprit was brought to justice, coupled with the healing hand of time would be the only balm for that affliction. He was still annoyed about the whole debacle with Scharnhorst, at that moment, what he wanted most in the world was to put his fist right through that bastard's sneering face. Losing control like that wasn't like him at all, and he was convinced if von dem Bach hadn't seen it he could've persuaded him of the merit of holding Scharnhorst longer.

Johan took a second mouthful of Cointreau, enjoying the rich, tangy flavour. Maybe von dem Bach was right, maybe he was cracking up. Johan had been told in no uncertain terms that if there were any more indiscretions on his part the chief would make good on his threat and he'd be suspended, then Bauer or whoever else would take the case. Von dem Bach had given him a lot to think about, and it had made him revise some of his opinions.

Some of what von dem Bach said had been right on the money. He _did _detest Scharnhorst with a passion and he _was _most certainly jealous of him, though he would never admit the latter to anybody. Perhaps he was seeing signs of guilt in Scharnhorst when in reality there were none there at all. Could it be possible that his own notions and prejudices about the man were leading him astray?

But he was a professional; surely he was above that, wasn't he?

Johan didn't know what to think; he still believed Scharnhorst was probably involved but where once there was certainty, now a great cloud of doubt weighed heavy on his mind.

The dull, repetitive patter of raindrops on the windows grew louder, overwhelming the low murmur of conversation and Johan became aware of a sudden cold gust of wind sweeping through the pub. He looked over in time to see the door close behind a woman as she made her entrance. Tall and statuesque with an eye-catching head of flaxen hair, she was fashionably dressed in a long, grey evening coat and hat. She scarcely seemed to walk at all, but rather glide with a ballerina's grace.

Johan realised he was staring and turned back to his drink. Though she probably got this reaction from men all the time, he didn't want to ogle the poor girl like some rude Bavarian peasant.

The fresh air that had wafted in from outside was a welcome relief from the stifling miasma of tobacco smoke which had hovered around the room like the morning mist. Johan returned to his brooding about Clara but was interrupted by an unpleasant, cold and moist sensation spreading down his thigh; someone had spilt their drink on him.

Johan jerked around in annoyance to come face to face with the alluring newcomer. She was even more striking up close, high-cheekbones, with a button nose, and her lips shone a vivid scarlet.

"I'm very sorry. Oh, I hope that won't leave a stain."

"S'all right," said Johan in response, making a conscious effort not to slur his words and failing miserably.

She produced a handerchief and began dabbing at his leg.

"I'll buy you another if you like," offered Johan, fumbling for his wallet.

"Oh no I wouldn't feel right accepting it."

The woman leaned in closer, and almost beneath her breath said,

"We have to talk, meet me in the alley outside in exactly one hour."

Johan stared at her, bemused, he was convinced he'd misheard.

"We can't talk here, it's not safe," she whispered, throwing a furtive glance at somewhere behind Johan's back.

Then as if nothing happened, she apologised again, ordered another glass of Jameson and sat down at the far end of the tavern. Frowning, Johan ran a hand through his dark hair, he had no idea what to make of the encounter. The cloak and dagger routine seemed unneccesary in a place like this but plainly the woman had her reasons.

She'd said it wasn't safe here, what exactly she had meant by that?

Obviously she was afraid of something - or more likely someone.

There weren't that many in the the pub, only a few others apart from himself, the blonde woman and the young barmaid, who looked too innocent to be a threat to anyone.

Behind the bar a begrimed mirror twinkled under the wan lighting and through this Johan surreptitiously surveyed the clientele. To the left sat a grey-bearded old man and his wife who had been nursing her glass of sherry for nearly an hour, beside them were a youthful couple who seemed to be more interested in each other than anything else and in the corner a trio of off-duty Luftwaffe men laughed raucously at a ribald joke.

None of these people appeared remotely suspicious. But wait – a slight movement alerted Johan's bleary eyes to another customer. A thin man was ensconced in a shadowy booth at the back wall, a narrow wisp of smoke escaped from the end of the long cheroot that was gripped between his leather-gloved fingers. Cloaked in the gloom, it was too dim to make out his features. Out of everyone this fellow was most likely to be the reason for the blonde woman's caution, Johan thought.

After about fifteen minutes the woman departed, and Johan was left waiting for the rendezvous time to arrive. He kept an eye on the man in the booth, and when a shaft of light caught his face as he shifted position in his seat, Johan could see a livid, vertical scar that ran down from his temple to his cheek. This happened too briefly to make out much else and Johan was still none the wiser about his identity.

He was eager to find out what this was all about, but as if to taunt his impatience the seconds seemed to drag by at a snails' pace. Johan smoked a few cigarettes in an attempt to relieve the monotony of waiting. He checked his gold pocketwatch for what felt like the fiftieth time and to his pleasant surprise saw that at last the hour of the meeting had come.

Johan downed the last of his drink before leaving a generous tip on the counter, to an appreciative smile from the barmaid. He put on his fedora and trenchcoat and got to his feet, the wooden floor lurched violently like a ship on stormy seas. That wasn't good; he must be more drunk than he'd thought. Somewhat unsteadily he made his way to the door.

Johan stepped outside into the torrential rain, the frigid wind hit him with the force of a freight train, numbing his face and hands.

"Cold as a witch's tit out here," he grumbled to himself.

The alleyway was deserted, save for several rats chittering near a few torn sacks which had disgorged their contents of rubbish onto the wet ground. Water streamed down from a pipe on one of the brick walls creating a deep puddle. The putrid smell of refuse and urine hung in the air. A flickering lamp-post near the mouth of the alley provided an island of light in the sea of darkness. The rats scattered at his approach and Johan waited.

It struck him that this was an excellent place to spring a trap; isolated with only one means of entry/escape. He had seen enough movies to know that when a mysterious and beautiful woman lured the hero to a quiet location like this, it didn't usually bode well for him. Johan had left his Luger at the station as usual, but the comforting weight of the second pistol he carried (defying regulations) in a small ankle holster was some consolation.

He rubbed his palms together trying to restore some feeling in them, while wistfully thinking of the warm, crackling fire inside. Johan had just about given up hope that the woman would show up, when he heard the distinctive clack of high-heels on pavement. Their owner came into view, she was holding an umbrella and her coat was billowing in the wind. She stopped beside him, shifting the umbrella to encapsulate them both. Johan could smell her perfume, a heady, spicy fragrance.

"Glad to see you decided to turn up," said Johan.

"You weren't followed were you?"

"Hold on a minute. Who are you first?

The woman thought for a second,

"Call me Ilsa, now were you followed or not?

"No.

"Good," said Ilsa, visibly relieved. "I know you're working the Timmermann case, Clara and I were friends and I've got some information for you."

"Wait, how did you know about it so fast?" asked Johan, his suspicion aroused.

As far as he knew, no details had been made public yet, and he'd never heard Clara talk about a friend named "Ilsa."

"Word travels fast in this town," said Ilsa with a shrug.

"And how did you know where to find me?"

Johan still wasn't convinced. This woman was hard to read, to say the least

Ilsa smiled, exposing perfect teeth,

"You don't trust easily. That's a pretty smart habit. Okay, I called to your house and you weren't there, but I remember Clara saying this was your favourite bar, though she never understood why. The one time you brought her here for lunch you ended up getting sick all over the bathroom."

Johan nodded, satisfied for now at least.

"And I haven't been brave enough to eat here since. All right you pass the test, but why all the secrecy?"

"Did you see the guy with the scar sitting in the booth? That's Reinhardt, I've heard he's an assassin. He works for Austerlitz, you do know who Oliver Austerlitz is, right?"

"Who doesn't? He's like the Pope of the Berlin underworld. Always one step ahead of us, we can never make any charges stick."

Austerlitz had taken advantage of the power vacuum left when the Nazis had cracked down hard on crime. Intelligent and shrewd, he had risen quickly to prominence and was one of the very few who'd managed to make crime pay these days. Prostitution, drugs, racketeering, the black market, Austerlitz was involved in anything that could turn a profit. He had an altruistic streak to match his ruthless one and would frequently donate vast sums to charity, endearing him to the public.

Ilsa threw a quick glance behind her at the sound of people from the street. The voices faded, and she turned her sapphire gaze back to Johan.

"He has informants everywhere, I guess that's why you can't get him.

Austerlitz also owns a nightclub, The Blue Angel. I work there as a dancer, so you can understand why it wouldn't be in my best interests to be talking with a cop while one of his men is right there watching."

"Though I still think you could've got my attention without ruining my suit in the process."

A thin smile crawled across Ilsa's lips, "Hey, it was only a glass of whiskey, I could've spilt a whole pint on you if I really wanted."

"I'm grateful," said Johan dryly, "Any idea what Reinhardt was doing there?"

"I don't know. He could've just been having a quiet drink, I suppose," replied Ilsa.

Overhead a tendril of lightning flashed, illuminating the streets and buildings below. A moment later the boom of thunder drowned out the pounding rain and the distant grumble of passing vehicles.

"Anyway, about that information. I was at work one day when I saw Clara with Austerlitz. I asked her later what that was about, she told me she owed him money but wouldn't say anything else. I just thought you should know."

Johan wondered what Clara had gotten herself mixed up in. Austerlitz was a dangerous man to cross, those who did simply disappeared. No body, no evidence, nothing, it was as if they'd evaporated into thin air.

"You did the right thing."

"You will investigate him won't you? She was a good friend."

"Absolutely."

"Austerlitz has an office above the nightclub, he's usually there."

"Doesn't it bother you working for a man like that, even indirectly?

"Yeah, but it pays the bills, and I can't afford to pass up the kind of money he's offering."

She turned to leave, "I'd better be going now."

"Wait, Ilsa's not your real name I presume?"

"That's right, it's better that way."

"Why's that?"

"Think of it as an insurance policy. Austerlitz won't like you asking questions and I don't want you to give up my name under torture," said Ilsa, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I'm taking enough chances as it is."

Johan shook his head in amusement, "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Any time."

With that Ilsa went on her way, and it wasn't long before she faded away into the rainy night's veil, like a ghost in the fog.


	4. The Blue Angel

Our Festering Hopes

Chapter Four

The Blue Angel wasn't far, and Johan decided he'd pay Austerlitz a visit. He'd sobered up a little by the time he got there, but not enough as he would have liked, he knew he'd need his wits about him.

The street the nightclub was situated on was one of Berlin's seedier, the sort of place where the cracked footpaths were tramped only by desperate, reprehensible types. The buildings were scrawled with grafitti, mostly run-down, and seemed to jostle with each other for attention, each promising attractions ever more lurid than the last. It was outside these that after dark, the pimps and the cutpurses came out to play. Johan could see that these were in no short supply tonight, prostitutes and drug-dealers offered their wares almost openly. From opium dens to back-alley abortionists, every form of vice however depraved, was catered for here, if one knew where to look. This haven of sin and iniquity was like a miniature, modern-day Sodom in the heart of the modern metropolis Hitler had created.

The Blue Angel itself was by far the most pristine structure on the street (no doubt because of its infamous owner). It was made of an ostentatious white stone, with elaborate carvings on the borders, the roof was dominated by a neon sign, showing the cobalt outline of a rather scantily-clad angel in a suggestive pose. Underneath this in flamboyant cursive script was the name of the establishment. On the walls were garish posters advertising cabaret nights and drinks promotions.

Johan ducked under the velvet rope and bypassed the short queue that had formed on the red carpet before the entrance. A pair of bouncers, both built like wardrobes barred the door.

"Are you on the gusetlist?" asked one of them.

"This is a private party," grunted the other, cracking his knuckles.

Johan showed his badge, "Here's my invitation."

"Now stand aside girls, I'm here to see your boss."

The two toughs exchanged glances, before one of them broke the silence.

"All right, follow me."

And so Johan entered the lion's den. The nightclub had a long bar that ran nearly its whole length, most of the people were clustered around the opposite side near a stage, where a raunchy burlesque show was in progress. At the centre of which was a woman dancing with only two large fans made of feathers to preserve her modesty. On a balcony above was a band playing lively swing music. The tinted lights on the ceiling cast everything below in a bluish hue.

The hulking bouncer led Johan to a door that opened out backstage. They walked past the dressing rooms and up a wooden staircase, which led to a door. Johan could here a snippet of converstion from inside, something about a missing prostitute. His surly guide knocked before entering.

"There's a detective who'd like a word," he said.

"Send him in," came a nasal voice from within.

A small, dark man wearing a bowler hat brushed past Johan as he left.

Johan entered; the office was well-appointed and plush. Classical paintings of landscapes and nudes adorned the walls, and a high bookcase brimmed with the works of Descartes, Nietzsche and their ilk. Velvet curtains were drawn across the window, hiding the nighttime sky. Faint echoes of music travelled through the walls from downstairs. The viridian wallpaper was emblazoned with a tasteful recurring motif, and the room was lit only by a lamp atop the fabulously carved ivory writing desk, behind which sat Austerlitz.

He was a man in his mid-forties, bald and corpulent he appeared almost moulded to his chair. Despite the slowly rotating fan hanging from the roof, a light sheen of sweat covered his face. Over his right eye he wore a monocle, and his stubby fingers were festooned with gaudy rings. Johan didn't let his less than imposing appearance fool him; he knew Austerlitz wielded immense power. Indeed his tailored waistcoat and shirt with its diamond cuff-links probably cost more than he would earn in a month.

Remaining seated, Austerlitz stared down his porcine nose at his visitor before dismissing the bouncer with a wave of his hand, "You can wait outside, Lutz."

His voice didn't really suit him; it was almost comically high-pitched for a man of his size and girth.

Lutz plodded out, closing the door behind him.

Johan sat down in a luxurious leather armchair across from Austerlitz.

"Might I offer you a cognac Detective...?"

"Müller,"Johan supplied. "You can keep the cognac, and it's Lieutenant actually."

Austerlitz inclined his head, "Forgive me. I trust you won't think any less of me if I have a glass?"

"Makes no difference to me," said Johan, he hadn't expected this outwardly genteel manner.

Austerlitz busied himself with the drinks cabinet.

"What was it you wanted to see me about Lieutenant? I'd be delighted to help in any way possible."

"You can start by dispensing with that routine. I know you're a criminal, I know you had dealings with Clara Timmermann, I know she owed you money and I know she turned up dead soon after."

Austerlitz chuckled, "I don't know where you get your information from Lieutenant. Criminal? No, no, no, I'm an entrepreneur. I buy and sell property, like this nightclub for example."

"If you're an honest businessman, then I'm Marlene Dietrich. You've been up in court more times than I care to remember."

"And found innocent everytime," Austerlitz pointed out with a smug grin.

"Only because you bribed the judges."

"Don't believe everything you read, Lieutenant Müller. As I'm sure you know success breeds envy. When the newspapers have nothing to say they print slander."

Johan took out a cigarette and struck a match.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't smoke here, Lieutenant."

Johan made no move to stop, he had learned when dealing with men like Austerlitz never to back down on anything. They would pounce on any percieved moment of weakness no matter how trivial, like a wolf to an exposed neck.

He exhaled a mouthful of smoke in Austerlitz's direction, who gave a soft all but feminine cough.

"You are indeed a well-refined gentleman, Lieutenant."

"I try. Now I'll ask you again, what do you know about Clara Timmermann?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, I've never heard that name before in my life."

Johan tipped some cigarette ash into a glass of water on the desk, Austerlitz made a face but said nothing. Johan could tell the man was hiding something, he could sense it. But it would take more radical measures to get him to talk, he decided to take a risk.

"So you won't tell me anything? Then maybe you'll tell my friend, Walther," said Johan, in one fluid motion drawing his PPK and aiming it at Austerlitz's head.

Austerlitz didn't panic as Johan expected he would. His expression only showing mild surprise, he took a long draft of cognac before speaking.

"What exactly to you intend to do with that, Lieutenant? Do you mean to kill me and then just walk out of here?" enquired Austerlitz, his voice as calm as if he was looking at a friend's holiday photos, rather than down the barrel of a gun.

"Don't let that concern you, in a few seconds you won't be worrying about anything."

Austerlitz's hand flitted down beneath the desk for a second.

"Keep those hands where I can see them," ordered Johan.

Austerlitz gave him a petulant glare but complied, showing his open palms.

"I'm going to count to five, and you better start talking before I get there. One."

"You wouldn't dare-"

"Two."

Austerlitz bit his lip, his fingers rapping a tattoo on the desk.

"Three," said Johan cocking the hammer.

"Four."

At this there was a noise from behind, a footfall on the carpet.

Johan made to turn but the Cointreau in his system dulled his reflexes.

Before he knew it there was a switchblade at his throat, and a spade-like hand that relinquished him of his weapon.

"About time, Lutz," scolded Austerlitz, emptying his glass of cognac.

Johan knew he'd made a very grave error in judgement, and it would probably be his last. Austerlitz must have had a panic button. Only now did it strike him that Ilsa could have set him up.

"You've got some nerve, coming in here drunk, waving a gun around and threatening me. You know I actually respect the audacity of it, in a way. But I can't let it go unpunished. As Cicero said, 'justice is the crowning glory of the virtues.'"

"You can't kill me. My superior sent me here; if I don't come back the law'll come here and cause problems, it'll be bad for business," said Johan with difficulty, the knife put pressure on his windpipe, making it hard to talk.

Austerlitz removed his monocle and started polishing it on his shirt.

"Don't let that concern you, Lieutenant, in a few hours you won't be worrying about anything. Oh, we'll kill you all right. Eventually. But first we're going to have a little chat about who's been telling tales about me," smiled Austerlitz, the jolly fat man act was well and truly out the window now.

The blade pressed down harder, breaking the skin and releasing a dribble of blood which meandered down his neck. Fear pulsed through his veins, penetrating his every sinew like some illegal narcotic. The terror invaded his mind, he couldn't think straight. Johan struggled briefly but Lutz was too strong. Adrenaline surged; flight or fight? He could do neither. The roaring of the blood in his ears was almost deafening. How was he going to get out of this?

"Who's been talking about my business?" asked Austerlitz. He plucked the still smoking cigarette from Johan's fingers and stubbed it out on his cheek. White-hot pain shot through him, he could smell the sickening aroma of burning flesh.

Johan remained silent, he didn't want to give him the satisfaction of crying out. Austerlitz repeated the question, but still Johan said nothing, unwilling to divulge Ilsa's description when he wasn't sure if she'd betrayed him or not.

"I think we'll start with his eyes," said Austerlitz.

The knife moved up his cheek before stopping at his right eye, the tip began to push under the socket, drawing blood.

"Wait, I'll talk!" pleaded Johan.

The blade lowered before it could do any permanent damage.

"Clara told me just before she was mrdered."

"Don't take me for a fool, Lieutenant."

"No, it's the truth."

Austerlitz looked over to Lutz, "Still, I think I'd rather make sure."

Johan had one last card to play, he hated doing it, but what choice did he have?

"Wait, I have more. This is something your other sources won't have heard."

"I'm listening."

"But if I tell you, you've got to let me go."

Austerlitz stared incredulously at him, and then gave a shrill laugh.

"You're not exactly in a position to make demands. I daresay you will tell me eventually, I'm a patient man."

"This information will only be useful for a short period of time. And if you don't accept the deal I swear I won't say a fucking thing."

Johan prayed that Austerlitz wouldn't call his bluff.

Austerlitz stroked his double chin thoughtfully.

"Very well, if I find what you tell me useful you can go. If not, well let's just say I'll be upset."

Johan felt blissful relief welling up inside him, before reminding himself he wasn't out of the woods yet. This could only be a temporary stay of execution, and if Austerlitz broke his word he was finished.

"That warehouse you own on Friedrich Street, it's been under police surveillance for several days. We believe you're stockpiling opium there. There'll be a raid soon."

Austerlitz was good all right, his expression remained neutral and only his sudden blink revealed his surprise.

"How can I verify this?"

"The building across the road, there'll be a blue Mercedes parked just outside."

Johan felt terrible giving away police secrets, he was ashamed but could see no other way out. Von dem Bach would skin him alive if he ever found about this. He had told but a select few about the operation, as it was suspected Austerlitz had a mole in the station.

"You'll understand if I check?"

So Johan waited with the switchblade still pointed at his jugular, as Austerlitz picked up the telephone and dialled. He hoped against hope that Wurzel and Waldorf hadn't gone home early as they were sometimes known to do.

"Hello, Kahlenberg is that you? This is Austerlitz, would you kindly check if there is a blue Mercedes parked outside?"

Johan's heart was thundering like a runaway locomotive, he could feel the cold sweat beading on his brow. Each hellish second of silence felt like a lifetime.

Finally after several such eternities, "I see. Would you excuse me for a moment Kahlenberg?"

Austerlitz covered the receiver and fixed Johan with a stare of pure malevolence. One could find more compassion in the eyes of the Devil himself.

"You're going to regret wasting my time. By the time I'm through with you, you'll be begging for death," he said softly.

Johan felt an awful sinking feeling in his chest. Dread threatened to overwhelm his senses. His whole body trembled, he felt physically ill. The breath in his lungs came in quick and shallow bursts. There was no hope for him now, no guardian angel would descend from the heavens to rescue him from a dismal and agonising fate. He could do nothing now but savour these last precious minutes before the ordeal began.

"Right this is what I want you to do, destroy all the merchandise. Yes, every bit of it. Because there are several detectives watching the building as we speak. Too risky to try and smuggle it out. No, not a trace Kahlenberg, there could be a raid at any moment. Goodbye."

Johan stared as Austerlitz hung up the phone, hardly daring to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Don't worry Lieutenant I am a man of my word. But for your transgressions, I couldn't let you get off that easily."

As his hurrying heartbeat returned to normal Johan was torn between hating Austerlitz and feeling a strange sort of gratitude towards him. The switchblade returned to its owner's pocket and Lutz stood a discrete distance away.

"I know you were motivated purely by self-preservation but nevertheless you did me a rather large favour there. As a bonus I will tell you what I know about Clara Timmermann. I'm not worried you'll say anything, you'll be in as much trouble as me if anyone down at the station learns about this little encounter," said Austerlitz, throwing him a tissue which Johan used to wipe the blood off his neck and face.

"She came to me looking for fake documents; , passport, birth cert, the works. All under the name 'Miriam von Trinker.' Which I provided."

Johan hadn't the slightest clue why she'd have any need for all that.

"In exchange for what?" he asked, still not believing his luck.

"Information, knowledge is power after all. She was my eyes and ears within the Berlin police department."

Johan was stunned, never in a million years would he have suspected Clara to be the spy in their midst. Austerlitz wasn't finished yet, "But information alone, valuable though it was, wasn't enough to cover her debt. She still owed me a rather substantial sum for those documents. And before that little brain of yours starts forming theories Lieutenant, let me tell you I'm as upset as anyone about her death, it means I won't get paid."

Johan couldn't help but wonder why Austerlitz was telling him all this, unless it served his motives in some way.

Could he trust him?

That was a question Johan didn't have the answer for.

"Yes, a tragedy," mused Austerlitz. "Not just from a business perspective either, she was a charming girl, with a beauty enough to make Aphrodite weep. Not that you'd know who that is," said Austerlitz clearly unable to resist throwing the barb Johan's way.

"Of course I know who it is," lied Johan,"Do you know why she wanted the documents?"

"No idea, and frankly it's none of my concern. As long as the money is there I do not care."

"Is there anything else I should know?"

"I can tell you no more, but there is one other thing, I'll need a new mole in the police. Are you interested in the job? You've made a fine start."

"No," said Johan, avoiding Austerlitz's eyes.

"Are you sure? I can pay handsomely."

"I said no."

"Let me be clear, I am not a man you say no to. I spared you tonight for a reason, you _will_ do as I ask, or suffer the consequences."

Johan chided himself mentally for his naivete, he should have known there'd be a catch.

"I'll think about it."

"In that case there is nothing left to discuss, I pray you make the right decision. Lutz, here will show you out."

Johan got up to leave, his mind buzzing with unanswered questions and his conscience weighing heavy.

* * *

This was quite a fun chapter to write, I enjoyed messing around with the character of Austerlitz and putting poor Johan in and out of jeopardy.  
The next chapter will probably be a rather long one but I'll try and have it up soon.  
Special Thanks goes to **swiftswallow **for the kind review, really made my day.


	5. Upon a Morning Dreary

Our Festering Hopes

Chapter Five

Johan awoke early next morning with a dreadful hangover; it felt like someone was very slowly boring a hole through his skull. It was agony every time he turned his head. His mouth was both dry as cotton and infected with a foul taste. Johan resolved never to abuse Cointreau to that extent ever again.

He still hadn't quite taken in the events of last night, but he knew had he been sober he never would have behaved in such a reckless fashion. He was aware he should count himself lucky to have survived the encounter with Austerlitz, but being in his debt was certainly an unwelcome state of affairs. Johan had no intention of being the crimelord's inside man, but for the life of him couldn't figure out how to get out of this situation he now found himself in. He'd just have to hope by the time he had to cross that bridge he would have a plan.

He hauled himself out of bed with a groan, his head still pounding. Johan got dressed into a clean pinstriped suit and surveyed his reflection in the bathroom mirror; he looked haggard with clearly defined dark circles under his eyes and his face was dusted with a light coating of inky stubble. A painful and unightly red welt had risen on his cheek from the cigarette burn and if he looked closely he could see two hairline cuts, one on his neck and another below his right eye. He looked as bad as he felt.

Johan paused at the bedside locker, seeing his Iron Cross laying there. He never wore the medals he'd earned during the war, never talked about the experience either if he could help it. He had done things during those years that he wasn't proud of. Johan dug in his pocket for the bullet he carried with him, he held it in his left hand, the one with the missing little finger. Some scars never heal, be they physical or mental. It was funny, that insignificant, misshapen, lump of lead, dwarfed in his palm had almost cost him his life. Johan believed in no higher deity, save for Lady Luck. By some roll of the cosmic dice he had cheated death, and illogical as it was, he felt by always keeping this bullet by his side he could keep some of that good fortune with him.

The bedroom was sparsely decorated and only a few pictures hung on the generic wallpaper. A wooden chair was in the corner beside a gramophone atop a small table, a few records were piled beside it, and the trumpet he'd bought and tried to play was discarded there too. The wooden floor was spotless; the place scarcely looked lived in and only the hangers and shirts visible from the wardrobe betrayed the fact that it was. Johan lived alone; there had been women in the past but none so special he'd want to spend his life with. The one he really wanted was always out of reach, now even more so than ever. Johan sighed.

The telephone rang beside him, wrenching Johan from his reverie. He answered it on the second ring.

"Hello?" said Johan, his voice gravelly.

"Good morning, Lieutenant. This is Bauer. I'm sorry to disturb you at home but I've discovered some information that might interest you. It's about the Timmermann case."

"Do tell."

Privately Johan was dubious as to whether Bauer had anything useful or not.

"I was looking over some of the files and documents, you know just looking for a pattern or something we may have missed, and I came across a record of 's bank transactions. This is the weird thing, twice every week someone has been lodging sizable payments into her account."

Even through the bad connection Bauer sounded pleased with himself, he spoke quickly and Johan could almost picture him bobbing from foot to foot in excitement.

"Do we know who this someone is?"

"I checked up on the account number, which led to several others before I got anything. You're not going to believe what name finally turned up, Wilhelm von dem Bach."

That pronouncement seemed to hang in the air for a few seconds before dropping with the weight of an anvil.

"Von dem Bach? That can't be right."

"I've got the papers here in front of me. It's right."

Johan rubbed his brow, it didn't make any sense.

"How much are we talking here? Define 'sizable payments.'"

Johan repressed a whistle when Bauer told him the figures.

Von dem Bach came from a wealthy aristocraatic family and could likely afford to pay that, but even so the amount was surprising.

"And these payments have been going on for nearly a month," added Bauer.

"I'm not sure I buy this, bank records can be faked."

"They can, but it doesn't look like it here."

"Either way something odd is going on here," said Johan.

There was a short pause before he spoke again.

"You don't seriously think von dem Bach is the murderer, do you?"

"It's possible," responded Bauer, not mincing words.

"Look, I've known that man for twenty years; he may be a lot of things but one thing he isn't is a killer. He's just not the type, trust me on this."

While the war had hardened Johan, it had seemed to make von dem Bach more compassionate. He placed a high value on human life and hated to see the daily discrimination meted out towards Gypsies, Jews and other so-called "undesirables."

Bauer was not to have the wind taken from his sails however, "I think it's something we'll have to consider."

"Naturally we will follow up on it. I'm just saying this isn't some detective novel, things like that don't generally happen in real life."

"They say truth is stranger than fiction."

"Touché. Now what I want you to do is to keep sifting through those records, see if you can dig anything else up. I'm going to go to Clara's house and make sure they didn't overlook anything. Maybe I can find something there that'll shed some light on why von dem Bach was making those payments."

"I'll get right on it sir."

"You did well Bauer."

"Thank you Lieutenant."

Johan returned the reciever to its cradle. Assuming the records were genuine and Bauer hadn't made some mistake, he pondered the possible reasons for the transactions. What precisely was she being paid to do? Did von dem Bach know Clara was Austerlitz's spy? Johan gave up, exasperated, simply too many questions and no answers. First the arrangement with Austerlitz and now this, he hadn't realised Clara's life had been so layered with intrigue and subterfuge.

He went downstairs and wolfed down a quick breakfast before getting his coat and hat, Johan could hear the ferocious downpour long before he got to the door. He stepped out past the threshold and into the fierce wind and pelting rain that lay siege to the city. The rain fell in oversized droplets before exploding into smaller splashes and the wind was strong enough to bend the trees.

Pedestrians hurried underneath the fluttering, striped awnings outside restaurants to find sanctuary from the deluge. Despite the traffic lights being green a long queue of cars and trucks had formed at the crossroads; a gigantic oak tree had been uprooted during the storm last night and its corpse now blocked the route. The honking of the drivers' horns and their disgruntled shouts did little to speed the workers' efforts to remove the obstruction.

He reflected that just yesterday, despite the weather, he would have enjoyed watching the hustle and bustle of the workmen and observing the disruption on his way to work. Twenty-four short hours ago he had been so full of enthusiasm and brimming with optimism for what the day would bring, strange how quickly everything can change. He was still ruminating about that when he saw a familiar face; the hunched figure of the tramp from yesterday was visible across the road. His battered violin was slung over his shoulder and Johan noticed he now had a pair of shoes before he disappeared around the corner.

A railway bridge loomed over the congested road, bisecting the roiling, charcoal sky. As Johan approached, an armoured train bristling with anti-aircraft guns hurtled by overhead, its whistle scything through the frosty morning air. The carriages were painted in mottled camouflage and there were rows of tanks harnessed to the flatcars. This train was probably filled with troops bound for the east; it appeared another war in Europe was inevitable thought Johan as he walked under the rattling pylons and vibrating steel girders of the immense structure.

He saw his goal; Clara's apartment was small and opened straight out onto the street. Lace curtains were drawn closed behind all the windows, no lights were on. It looked like all the others on the row save for the tray of wild flowers planted on the window-ledge; with nobody to attend to them they showed signs of wilting and the vivid reds, greens and blues on their petals had turned a sickly green. Another thing that set this dwelling apart from the others was the police tape and squad cars that had surrounded it last night; the officers had taken these with them when they'd discovered nothing of note. Now the apartment stood derelict, abandoned by all but ghosts and whispers.

A strange thought struck Johan, the darkened, inscrutable windowpanes looked almost like eyes; as if the building were some concrete sphinx unwilling to surrender its secrets. Johan banished this bizarre notion from his mind and climbed the steps to the door. He examined the lock, thinking he might have to force it when all of a sudden the door opened just a crack. A surly, bestubbled face peered out of the slender gap maintained by the brass door-chain. It was Scharnhorst.

Not so deserted after all thought Johan, getting over his momentary surprise. He wondered was there some sinister reason for Scharnhorst's presence here, perhaps he was covering up evidence?

"Let me in," he demanded.

The door closed and Johan was just thinking he'd have to do this the hard way when he heard the chain being released on the other side.

A second later Scharnhorst was standing aside to grant access.

"You shouldn't be here. There better be a good reason for this."

Scharnhorst shrugged in response.

"Somebody has to take care of Cleopatra," he said, pointing to Clara's pudgy tabby cat which was stretched out on the carpet.

"Oh, right."

"I suppose you're here on police business, come in."

Johan wiped his boots on the mat before following as Scharnhorst led him into the living room. It was a cosy room with two puffy armchairs and a matching couch. A mahogany coffee table was in the centre, a few books and newspapers were stacked on top. Taking up nearly an entire wall was a marble fireplace, on the ledge above that were photos of Clara's family back in Vienna (Johan wondered had the telegram with the bad news reached them yet) and smiling pictures of Scharnhorst and Clara together. There was a faint smell of lavender, some vestiges of her perfume remained.

Scharnhorst sank down into one of the armchairs, putting his feet up on the table. Johan followed his lead and sat down on the other one. He reasoned that if Scharnhorst was going to tell him anything he would be more likely to do so if Johan put him at ease first.

"Listen, I'm sorry about yesterday. I was out of line."

"That's okay. No permanent harm done," replied Scharnhorst.

Johan was stunned; he'd expected the apology to be thrown back in his face or a snide comment or two at the least.

"I said some things I shouldn't have, she was important to you too. It's just so much to take in, you know? It still hasn't really hit me yet. I feel like I'm coming apart at the seams, this is like some nightmare I keep expecting to wake up from," continued Scharnhorst.

Not knowing quite what to say to all this, Johan merely nodded.

"I'm happy to put the whole thing behind us, let's just say we were both wrong. Would you like tea, coffee, or maybe something stronger?" offered Scharnhorst.

A while ago Johan would never have even entertained the idea of drinking so early, but that was then.

Besides his grandfather had always maintained that one drink the next morning did wonders for a hangover, it helped to 'clear the head' he'd said. Though Johan was convinced that basic biology and common sense thought otherwise.

"I don't suppose you have any Cointreau?"

An expression of befuddlement clouded the other man's features, "What's that?"

"Never mind. Whatever you have will be fine."

Scharnhorst went into the kitchen, where pouring and the clinking of glasses emanated from.

Johan was still trying to figure out if this pleasant new personality of Scharnhorst's was real or a sham when he returned with two glasses of cheap Scotch.

Scharnhorst raised his glass, "To Clara, I know she's looking down at us from heaven right now," he said with a sad smile.

In unison they both took a hearty gulp. Scharnhorst grimaced at the taste of the strong liquor then said, "I must confess being considered a suspect is one of the worst parts. It's like having salt rubbed into the wound, that people would think that about me."

"Everyone's a suspect until they're ruled out."

Scharnhorst said something about how innocent he was, but Johan wasn't listening.

He picked up a ticket from the table, "What's this?"

"That...That's just...Sorry," Scharnhorst broke off as his eyes teared up.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

As much as he was inclined to disbelieve this performance, Johan had to admit if it was indeed fake, Scharnhorst deserved an Academy Award.

"I'm sorry, I booked passage for me and Clara on a Zeppelin. She always wanted to see New York. You know she put up with a lot from me, I saved up for a long time to surprise her, and we were all set to go. What a waste it all was now."

Johan actually found himself feeling sorry for Scharnhorst. He looked at the date on the ticket, "I know this is no consolation but it would've been a waste anyway, they could never have taken off yesterday afternoon in that weather."

"Well, they would've allowed us to set off on the next clear day, maybe tomorrow. I think I'll just donate the tickets to somebody who wants them. They're no use to me now."

Cleopatra sprang up into Scharnhorst's lap and started purring as he stroked behind her ears.

"I have something to ask you. Did you know Clara owed money to Oliver Austerlitz?"

Scharnhorst threw him a blank look, "Jesus, I had no idea. What was she doing getting mixed up with a guy like that?"

"She wanted fake documents," said Johan, leaving out the other part of the deal. "You're certain you never heard her say anything about it?"

"Documents? No, she never said a thing, and believe me I'd tell you if she did. Shit, d'you think Austerlitz had her killed?"

"I don't know. But there's something else we don't understand, she was receiving bi-weekly payments from her boss, in addition to her wages. Can you tell me why?"

"That's news to me. I never knew about any of this."

Scharnhorst sat frowning in silence for a short time before saying, "I need another drink and I think you do too."

As he stood up the cat scampered away and Johan's empty glass was snatched up before he had a chance to protest. Scharnhorst took his time in the kitchen and came back without the drinks, "Look what I just found in the back of the press."

He handed over a small shabby book, "It's Clara's diary, I didn't even know she kept one."

Johan flicked through a few pages, it looked like her handwriting all right.

"You better hang on to that, it might help you. I can't believe those fucking incompetent cops missed this," said Scharnhorst. "No offense."

"None taken. I'm going to have a few harsh words to whoever was in charge of searching this place, let me tell you."

"Maybe we better go through the rooms again in case there's anything else they didn't find."

Johan didn't know what to make of this, far from concealing evidence Scharnhorst was volunteering it and even offering to help look for more. Maybe Johan had been wrong about him, maybe he wasn't guilty after all. Despite all this though there was still a part of him that didn't quite trust Scharnhorst.

"No. I'll have a team brought in. The best thing you can do is go."

If Scharnhorst was annoyed at being shunted out of his late girlfriend's house like this he didn't show it.

"Okay," said Scharnhorst, getting up to leave. "I just hope you find the murderer before I do 'cause I'll kill the son of a bitch."

Something about the way he said that irritated Johan.

"You needn't think you're off the hook yet. We've run some tests on your shotgun but the results aren't back yet. Then we'll know for sure."

Scharnhorst stopped on his way out, his face went deathly pale and his gaze met Johan's eye to eye.

"I'm sorry you think that way," he said quietly, before turning away and slamming the front door behind him.

Johan was unmoved by this petulant exit, his only concern was whether or not the diary would reveal the motivations behind Clara's clandestine activities. He opened the book.

It was mostly filled with the daily trivialities people document in their journals, gossip and concerns about relationships mainly. He was disappointed to find no mention of Austerlitz, the information Clara gathered for him or the documents she supposedly wanted. There was however a great deal about von dem Bach and Johan would have a few very awkward questions to ask of him.

He wondered if von dem Bach would have adequate answers as he approached the chief's office.

Major Metzger was walking the opposire way down the corridor; he halted when he saw him. The last thing Johan wanted right now was to get drawn into idle conversation with anyone.

"Ah, Johan could I have a word?"

"Forgive me sir but it's not really the best time. I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"That's okay it won't take a minute."

With that (to Johan's intense annoyance) he was steered into Metzger's office which was adjacent to von dem Bach's.

The room was neat and compact, some filing cabinets and a heavy safe with a combination lock stood against the far wall, beside them was an operations map of Berlin in which a host of different coloured pins were impaled. Papers and writing implements were meticulously arranged on the desk, the place was so austere it reminded Johan of a monk's cell and only the portrait of Heinrich Himmler and the photograph of Metzger's young family dispelled that illusion.

The radio was on; Hitler was delivering a speech over the airwaves. The Führer was in the process of haranguing his listeners about _Lebensraum_ and the evils of 'The International Jew' when Metzger turned the volume down, cutting him off midsentence.

The Gestapo man took off his peaked officer's cap before sitting down behind the desk, Johan's pulse quickened, what if Metzger had found out he'd tipped Austerlitz off about the raid last night? After all there wasn't a corner of German society that the Gestapo's agents hadn't yet infiltrated.

"You look terrible Johan, what happened?"

"You mean this? Well sir I-"

"Come now, there's no need for formalities here among friends. You can call me Theodor."

"I know this sounds stupid Theodor, but I fell asleep smoking and burnt myself."

That pitiful explanation was all Johan could come up with, behind his thick glasses Metzger's indigo eyes narrowed.

"I see. And the cuts on your face?"

"A cat scratched me."

"Clearly a particularly vicious one, peculiar how the wounds look almost like the scars left from a knife."

Johan was really getting worried now.

"I understand your seatch for 's killer led you to The Blue Angel last night?"

A cold sweat ran down his back, how much did Metzger know?

Johan licked his dry lips.

"How'd you know?"

"Oh, one of my men saw you go in that's all," said Metzger lightly.

"Yes, I was pursuing a lead."

Metzger nodded,

"This must be very difficult for you Johan, I know you and were good friends. Which brings me to the reason I brought you here, if you ever feel you need to talk to someone about it you can come to me."

Johan tried to hide the relief from showing on his face, was that all Metzger wanted to see him about?

If the Major knew, surely he would have continued questioning him.

Maybe he was just being paranoid.

"Thank you, that's very kind."

"Well don't hesitate to come in any time. I hope you've got a few lines of enquiry for your investigation?"

"One or two," said Johan, unwilling to give anything away until von dem Bach had a chance to explain himself.

"Excellent."

Eager though he was to confront the chief, the elation Johan felt at not being exposed meant he couldn't resist pushing Metzger's buttons a little bit before he was dismissed.

"Sergeant Waldorf says that 'according to Freud the murderer would be someone with an overactive id and a very weak superego.' Do you have any idea what all that means?"

Metzger's affable expression morphed swiftly into a scowl.

"No, but I think you can tell that fool Waldorf we can do without the fevered delusions of a cocaine addled Jew. Mark my words in ten years this pscyhoanalysis craze will have died down and everybody will have forgotten about Freud, Jung and all the rest of them."

Johan murmured an agreement while trying to stifle a laugh. The fax machine on the desk started to beep insistently, providing a distraction.

"I'll have to attend to this. But remember my door is always open," said Metzger poring over the device. Johan made a quick exit while he had the chance, Metzger probably meant well but there was something unappealing about confiding in a man whose cap bore a grinning death's-head.

He walked up to von dem Bach's office door and burst in, ignoring the new secretary's disapproving stare. The chief's head jerked up from his paperwork as he regarded Johan striding towards him. He was silhouetted against the dreary, jagged backdrop of the Berlin skyline.

"Have you forgotten how to knock?"

Johan ignored the question, "You were being blackmailed by Clara Timmermann," he said without preamble.

Von dem Bach's florid cheeks flushed an even deeper red.

"How dare you barge in here with this nonsense! Where did you hear such rubbish?"

"I have her diary right here," said Johan taking the book from his pocket. "Here, I'll read you a passage. This is the last entry by the way. 'Wilhelm is getting more and more unstable, last night he threatened me. I don't know what he'll do or what he's capable of. This whole plan was a bad idea, I hope everything works out.'"

Von dem Bach sighed so gustily his mustache quivered.

"I suppose it had to come out sooner or later. Yes, she and I had an affair, I'm a weak man I couldn't resist. But Clara became pregnant, she knew I couldn't bear the shame if this went public and started blackmailing me. I had to pay. My wife Johan, she would leave me and take the children if she ever found out."

Johan knew there was an additional reason, it was an open secret that von dem Bach harboured ambitions of becoming mayor of Berlin. A scandal like that would surely scupper any hopes he had of being elected. Johan was still bewildered about something, if Clara wanted to cheat on Scharnhorst why did she choose a (rather paunchy) middle-aged man? He was sure no sane man would turn her down, unless of course it had always been about the money...

"Now I know why you were so eager to suspend me yesterday."

"I didn't kill Clara Timmermann, and I never threatened her once. Come on Johan use your head, if I'd murdered her, do you really think I would've made such a fuss about Scharnhorst being treated unfairly? No, I would've let you detain him and hope he got the blame for it."

That was a good point Johan had to admit, but not incontestable.

"Unless of course, the two of you were in cahoots."

"That's ridiculous, I never met him until yesterday. You're wasting your time here with me while the real killer is still out there."

"I've gotta chase up every lead. You know that."

"I'd expect nothing less. But Johan promise me you won't tell anyone about the affair, at least until you find out the whole story. I swear to you I had nothing to do with her death."

"All right," said Johan over his shoulder as he left the office.

After all they'd been through together he did at least owe him that courtesy.

"Have that diary checked by Maier, somebody's trying to set me up," von dem Bach called out to Johan's retreating back.

There was one thing Johan didn't tell von dem Bach. The first thing he'd done when he'd arrived at the station was go to Maier, with the diary and a letter Clara had once written to him. The handwriting expert had been absolutely certain the diary was genuine.

Johan's hands clenched into fists and within him an immolating fury raged. Regardless of what had happened in the past, if he found enough evidence to seal the chief's guilt, Johan would do everything in his power to make sure von dem Bach swung for this.


	6. By Ill Angels Only

Our Festering Hopes

Chapter Six

_They made for a sorry sight; a few dozen men shivering and huddled together for warmth in a filthy trench up to their ankles in mud and foul-smelling slush. Captain von dem Bach leaned back against the wall of the trench, plainly exhausted. None of them had had any sleep in days, Johan couldn't remember the last time he'd had a chance to lie down, let alone in a warm bed. Without sleep time seemed to stand still here at the front, sentencing the men to an endless cycle of killing and death._

_Von dem Bach surveyed the enemy position through his binoculars, they were expected to attack as soon as the borbardment ceased. Their artillery had been mercilessly pounding the French lines for nearly an hour now. The reports of the heavy guns were deafening and echoed through the still night air; the ground itself trembled such was the ferocity of the barrage and dust trickled down from the hastily erected canvas they'd put up to shelter from the intermittent drizzle. Johan cursed and ducked down as a shell fell short, ploughing into the earth nearby, and pelting them with dirt and fragments of rock which pinged off their steel helmets. Dust had gotten into his eyes, making them water._

_Abrubtly the artillery subsided and Johan rose shakily to his feet, ears ringing from the unholy din. He stole a glance over the edge and into No Man's Land. Once it had been a verdant meadow, now it was a scorched wasteland so torn up and pitted with craters that it resembled the landscape of the moon. Smoke lingered everywhere, concealing the ghastly macabre carpet of the corpses sprawled all over. The dead on both sides had been left where they'd fallen; thoughts of giving them decent burials had been dispelled by snipers' bullets._

_Von dem Bach turned to the Austrian corporal who had been serving as a runner. The man's face and uniform were smeared with dirt and detritus but his squarish Chaplin-esque mustache was exquisitely well-trimmed. The Iron Cross was displayed proudly on his breast and despite his low rank he walked with the cocky swagger of a major-general. He cradled his rifle in his arms like an infant child as he listened to the captain._

"_Go back to Krause's position and tell him we'll go on his signal."_

"_Yes sir," said the corporal before hurrying off._

_The captain was a born leader and despite his gruffness cared deeply about the lives of his men, and did his best to try and preserve them. He never demanded anyhting of them that he himself wouldn't do. In turn those under his command respected him and would obey any order without question. To quote the old cliché they would follow him to hell and back, though in Johan's opinion they were already in hell with little hope of ever returning._

_The waiting was always the worst part, and each man had his own way of coping, thought Johan as he looked over at the rest of the platoon. Stony-faced and with meticulous care Fischer was attaching his bayonet to the end of his rifle, the steel glinted wickedly in the wan moonlight. Weisz was nervously twirling his entrenchment tool in slow circles. He had honed the edges of the shovel-like implement until they were razor sharp, now one swing could cleave through flesh and bone with frightening ease. _

_Johan noted with amusement that Sven was clutching his rosary beads and mouthing a silent prayer. _

"_You really think that'll help?" he asked._

_Sven Traugott was an old friend from back home, full of idealism and hopes for glory they'd enlisted together on the same day. His religious fervour was a frequent topic of banter between the two._

"_God is with me,"said Sven, tapping the inscription on his metal belt-buckle._

"_Bullshit. He doesn't exist. Who lives or dies has nothing to do with God; it's just pure dumb luck."_

"_Okay, let's say it is just luck. Then what I'm doing has no effect on whether I live or die, that's true. But on the other hand if God is real who's He more likely to spare, me His faithful servant? Or you? The prick who not only doesn't believe in the Lord, but at every opportunity talks shit about Him to those who do."_

_Johan laughed mirthlessly, "Point taken."_

_To the West a coruscating emerald flare fizzed up through the darkened sky before blowing up, bathing everything below in an ethereal green glow, making the gutted landscape look incredibly surreal. This is it, thought Johan as he unslung his sub-machinegun and clicked off the safety, he tried with marginal success to quell the fear which threatened to overwhelm him._

"_Charge!" bellowed von dem Bach as he heaved himself over the top, his officer's sabre gripped in a white-knuckled fist._

_Johan and the others wasted no time and followed von dem Bach as he raced towards the enemy trenches. Johan found it hard to keep his footing on the uneven terrain as he ran hunched over in the hopes of presenting a smaller target. His boot squelched into something soft, he looked down and tried not to gag as he saw his foot had sank right through the chest cavity of a dead German soldier._

_The air was filled with gunshots and battlecries and the French wasted no time in returning fire, their machineguns chattered and their rifles spat lances of fire into the night. Johan's heart hammered in his chest like a tribal drum. Scores of men were cut down but still the atteck continued undaunted. Bullets whizzed by like angry bees and Johan was amazed he wasn't hit, but didn't have time to dwell on it in the fury of battle. He fired a long salvo from the hip at the French position in an attempt to keep their heads down long enough for him to close the distance._

_Now the distinctive popping noise of mortars could be heard and the bombs fell on No Man's Land in clusters, throwing up geysers of soil and debris. One such explosion consumed four men, leaving behind only red vapour. Another claimed the life of Fischer; he was hit full on and like a cartoon only his boots were left standing. A staccato burst of machinegun fire riddled the two men in front of Johan and he was spattered with warm blood from the exit wounds. He saw the gunners turning their weapon towards him and dived headfirst into a crater._

_Johan hit the sodden ground with a splash as the tracers zipped by overhead. He spat out a mouthful of mud that he'd inadvertantly ingested, and realised with a start that he was not alone. _

_He swivelled his gun around and saw with relief that the French soldier slumped there was long dead. The buzzards had picked most of the flesh away, maggots squirmed in the festering wounds and the eyeless sockets gaped. What had once been a man was now nothing but a grim scarecrow of exposed bone and carrion. Johan retched at this nauseating sight and the stench of rotting flesh._

_The French machinegunners apparently thought they'd killed him, for they now fired in a different direction. He could hear chaos raging above, the screams of the wounded intermingling with the roar of firearms. Johan crawled and peered slowly over the lip of the crater. He could see the machinegun nest clearly; covered by sandbags, three men served the weapon, one to fire, one to feed the ammunition belt and one commander. A similar emplacement on the right had been blown apart by the artillery bombardment. _

_Johan fumbled in his boot for a stick grenade, he armed the device and raised himself just enough off the ground to throw. He swung his arm back and hurled, the grenade pirouetted through the sky before hitting the French machinegunner on the chest. He stared stupidly at it for a second or two before trying to jump over the sandbags and flee. The three men scrambled over each other in their zeal to escape. They were too late, the grenade detonated with stunning force. Shrapnel, sandbags and body-parts were sent flying in all directions, and the gun spun weakly on its mounting. To his disgust Johan derived a certain primal satisfaction from the sight._

_The enemy trench system was ringed with barbed wire, though a gap in this had been gouged by the shelling. In a particularly tangled section of razor wire a putrefying cadaver was embroiled in its lacerating grasp. Johan could see unfamiliar helmets bobbing up over the trench, he hefted the weight of the sub-machinegun to his shoulder and braced it against the ground to ensure his aim wouldn't be affected by his trembling hands._

_He stared down the iron sights, drawing a bead on one of the helmets. His eyes burned with stinging sweat and the acrid smell of gunpowder singed his nostrils. He exhaled softly and squeezed the trigger, nothing but a dry click. Johan swore viciously and with grimy and numb fingers dug in his belt for another magazine, the training took over and with practiced ease he reloaded and regained his target. _

_The wooden stock kicked against his shoulder and the recoil made the barrel jump as Johan swept a long volley from left to right. The bullets tore up little plumes of dust on the ground and an audible metallic clink could be percieved when they punched through the French helmets. Three soldiers crumpled to the dirt in this fashion. He saw tongues of bright orange fire from the flamethrowers engulf a French machinegun nest to the right, it erupted like a match to tinder. The crew perished in the raging holocaust as the flames licked their flesh away, leaving only misshapen, blackened corpses._

_By now the attackers had gained a foothold in the trench and the battle had degenerated into a brutal melee, in which no quarter was asked nor given. Combatants on both sides fought at close quarters in a writhing mob. Johan clambered out of the crater and rushed to rejoin his comrades. He dived into the fray in time to see the broad figure of Weisz swing his shovel at a French soldier who brandished a shotgun, the blow sliced through his wrist, severing the hand, which fell to the mucky ground still gripping the weapon. The man stared in shock at the rhythmically bleeding stump, before Weisz almost casually placed the pistol in his other hand against his forehead and fired, sending a jet of blood and brain matter squirting out the back of his skull._

_Weisz was not to savour his victory for long however, a trio of French riflemen sent a ragged fusilade his way, he was hit in the chest, stomach and face and collapsed dead before he even hit the ground. Johan fired a burst in their direction killing two, they slid down the wall of the trench and fell in a heap together. The third not bothering to work the bolt on his rifle lunged, his bayonet aimed squarely at Johan's heart. Johan sidestepped and swung the butt of his gun into his aggressor's face, the man reeled back spitting out blood and teeth. A bloody wound appeared on his midsection as somebody else finished him off. Sven came up beside Johan, his rifle smoking._

_Realising they were now outnumbered, the French defenders threw their weapons down and surrendered. Von dem Bach appeared on the scene, breathing heavily and with crimson stains on his sabre._

"_You two," he said, pointing at Johan and Sven. "Guard the prisoners while we mop up any resistance in the other trenches."_

_With that he led the men away and vanished down a passage to the right. Johan shepherded the prisoners into a corner where they could be more easily watched. There were ten of them plus another too badly injured to be moved who sat against a wooden support beam trying to keep his entrails from spilling out onto the dirt. Johan accidentally touched the barrel of his gun, and withdrew his hand with a hiss, it was hot enough to leave a blister._

_It was clear that conditions were just as bad for the enemy as they were for the Germans. The trench was cramped and deep puddles of dirty brown water dotted the ground. Rats scurried amongst the bodies, spent shell casings and crates of supplies were stacked against the walls. The French soldiers themselves were also not dissimilar from their German counterparts; they were wide-eyed and frightened, wore tattered uniforms and were for the most part young. The mortally wounded Frenchman slumped over and gasping in pain could not have been more than sixteen, only a year or two younger than Johan himself._

"_It looks like God was with us both then," smiled Sven, looking over to Johan._

"_Well He wasn't with Weisz and Fischer, that's for sure," said Johan grimly._

_Sven sank into silence as he surveyed the carnage and desolation all around them. His gaze focused on the wounded French soldier, Sven knelt down beside him. He removed the smoking cigarette from his lips and offered it to the young Frenchman. An unnatural pallor had fallen over the boy's beardless features and with difficulty his head tilted ponderously up to regard his benefactor. It was plain to see that death would claim him soon but with a Herculean effort the boy raised a gore-flecked hand and thrust it at Sven's throat. The dagger cut deeply and its tip bit through flesh and arteries and emerged bathed in crimson at the back of Sven's neck. Through gritted teeth the boy snarled something in French as Sven stumbled back, the blood flooding down in a great torrent over his grey uniform._

_Johan was taken by surprise and for a few seconds was left staring mouth agape at the horrifying scene. Finally he sprang forward and kicked the bloodied knife from the boy's grasp, then before he knew it his own bayonet was in his hand and plunged straight into one of the boy's watery eyes. A stream of scarlet bubbled forth from the awful wound as the boy went limp and surrendered his last breath to the cool nighttime air._

_Not bothering to retrieve his bayonet from its gruesome resting place Johan rushed over to his stricken friend. Sven tottered like a drunk in a high wind before collapsing to the muddy earth, in Johan's arms he gave one last cough, twitched then died. There was a strangely serene expression on the dead man's face as he lay in the mud and the blood, his eyes unseeing. Johan kept his gun trained on the prisoners as he leaned down to collect Sven's dog tags, he felt a tear trickle down his face and knew he must look like a pathetic, frightened child._

_He heard a snigger from one of the French prisoners as they saw him crying. Or had he imagined it? It didn't matter. He could handle the deaths of Fischer, Weisz and so many others, he could even accept the cruel, unjust nature of Sven's fate, but this latest indignity was too much to bear. The cauldron of fear, rage, terror and fury that had been seething within him during the last few months at the front could no longer be contained, like magma beneath the Earth it burst forth and erupted._

_Without conscious thought he was on his feet, he cocked the submachinegun and opened fire on the prisoners. A stream of brass shell casings tumbled to the ground as the weapon jumped and thundered in his hands. Blood sprayed and bodies dropped as the dumdum bullets gouged terrible holes through the defenceless men. Their pleas for mercy were just as ineffective as their frenzied efforts to flee. As they were hit the prisoners' bodies jerked like marionettes before collapsing as if the invisible strings holding them up were suddenly severed. _

_By the time the magazine ran out all ten prisoners had been brought low by the hail of lead, they had fallen awkwardly over each other in a bloody heap. Most were dead but here and there an eyelid fluttered or a hand raised weakly. Seeing this Johan calmly reloaded and fired again until all movement and the groans of the dying ceased..._

Then he woke up. His skin felt clammy and he could feel the sweat on his brow. Johan saw that he was in his cluttered office, far from the horror and brutality of the trenches. But even after twenty years he felt like he was still there, tainted by what he'd seen...and did. He tried to bury it deep inside him and in the bustle of daily life with its problems and beguilements he could almost deny, suppress what he knew to be true. He was no better than the cutthroats and murderers he hunted, and on many a night while he lay awake there was no argument that could dispute this simple, irrefutable fact. Maddeningly the thought haunted him and followed him always like a malevolent spectre.

They say within dreams there are secrets and meanings encoded. Johan wasn't sure how much truth there was to that but he did know this dream was disturbingly accurate in its depiction of events, as if someone had recorded the whole thing and piped it into his sleeping brain. Von dem Bach had truly saved his life that day, when he'd returned and seen the slaughter he had taken Johan aside and in his own gruff, paternal way tried to comfort him. Had he reported the incident Johan would have had a date with the firing squad, but the captain had said more bloodshed wouldn't solve anything. Sometimes Johan wished he _had_ been put to death for the crime; maybe he'd be happier that way.

Johan reached past the tumult of papers and the overflowing ashtray on his desk and took a sip of coffee. It was cold and his trembling hands could hardly hold the cup. He'd worked all night but had found nothing more to incriminate von dem Bach, motive in itself was not enough to convict without evidence. And he was no closer to unravelling why Clara wanted money off of von dem Bach and documents off of Austerlitz. To confound matters further Bauer had presented to him a report about the nightwatchman of the factory where Clara's body had been found. The man, named Jurgen Kohl had seen nothing of course but he had a rather sordid past, in 1911 and again in 1922 he had been arrested for sexual assault. Nothing had been proven and there was apparently no sexual motive to Clara's murder but Johan knew better than to rule Kohl out.

He arose stiffly from the chair he'd fallen asleep in and clicked off the light, condemning the room to darkness. Closing and locking the door behind him he shuffled down melancholy corridors and claustrophic stairwells on his way out. It was late and only a few officers remained at the station, Bauer and von dem Bach had doubtless gone home long ago. Johan was grateful nobody tried to talk with him, he was sure no façade could mask his troubled thoughts.

The chill outside rendered grim streets grimmer still and the rain cascaded down in broad sheets from the black night's starred face. Now and again the glow of a streetlight would catch this descent, making the rain fall in a thousand glimmering prisms. The storm that had fallen over Berlin seemed to be abating; the strong winds had softened considerably. He encountered only the occasional passerby, at this hour it was mainly staggering drunks and shady types on some furtive errand. Johan continued through the sleeping city, his long coat whipping at his legs. He felt weary, freezing and wet and couldn't wait to fall into bed. Little rivers of rainwater flowed into the gutters of the cobbled road, then abrubtly as though somebody had flipped a switch, the rain stopped.

The frigid air had begun to thicken into a fog as Johan crossed the arching Gothic bridge over the gently rippling, obsidian waters of the river Elbe. Though the street was deserted and pin-drop quiet he couldn't help but feel he was being followed. He looked over his shoulder again and again but saw nobody, yet still he couldn't shake the unpleasant sensation. Was it paranoia? In the past Johan's instincts had usually been correct about matters such as this.

He veered down a side-street, the faster he got home the better. By now the fog had thickened further and it idled around the streetlamps, muddying their light and making hiding places of every alcove. In the anonymous buildings that towered either side of him no light burned in window or doorway. Johan stopped, he was sure he'd heard a footfall on the pavement behind him. He turned around, daring the street to reveal its sectets, but his eyes couldn't penetrate the heavy curtain of fog. Johan quickened his pace, his own footsteps echoing. He was beginning to feel nervous now, he would have felt better if he was armed, but his Luger was sitting on his office desk and back at The Blue Angel Lutz hadn't returned his backup pistol. Without his gun he felt naked and vulnerable.

Johan was sure he heard a sound this time, he spun around just in time to see an indistinct form rushing through the veils of the fog. Before he could react his right leg was hit with crushing force. Agony seared and his knees buckled, Johan hit the wet pavement hard. He tried to force himself up but his attacker gave him no chance; a flurry of blows drove him down again and again. Johan quivered in the gutter as pain radiated through his body, he could do nothing under this withering assault except curl up and try to protect himself as best he could.

He heard a clatter as his attacker threw the iron bar away, but still he wasn't finished. Now a hail of kicks rained down on him. Johan heard his nose break and felt the hot blood wash down his face. He lay broken, battered and bruised as his tormentor finally stopped, apparently more from being winded from his efforts rather than any act of mercy.

The man spoke, breathless from his exertions.

"Listen to me you piece of shit, stay away from the Timmermann case. You'll find out things you're better off not knowing."

Johan lifted his head slightly, it was torture to breathe.

He got his first proper glimpse of his aggressor, a man dressed in black, swathed in a long grey travelling coat, over his face he wore a balaclava.

From his prone position Johan could see there was a hole in one of his boots.

He thought there was something familiar about his voice though he couldn't quite place it.

"Don't investigate any further, understand?"

The man punctuated each word with a kick, Johan contorted and groaned with each impact.

"I said do you understand, you bastard?"

He hauled Johan to his feet and slammed him against the worn brick wall behind.

Like a magic trick a knife was suddenly in his hands and pointed at Johan's face.

"Do you understand? If I have to see you again about this I swear I'll cut you up piece by piece and leave you all over the city!"

The man's livid green eyes were fixed on Johan's bloodied and swollen face as it inclined slowly in a nod, he didn't notice that when he'd lifted his victim up, Johan's hand had closed around a discarded beer bottle.

With all the strength he could muster Johan struck him in the side of the head, the bottle smashed in a dazzling explosion of glittering fragments.

The man howled and stumbled back as jagged shards bit into his flesh, a dark red patch spread beneath the balaclava.

Johan grabbed the man's knife hand and drove his knee up as hard as he could, he heard an awful popping noise as tendons and ligaments gave out.

The knife fell from limp fingers as the man gave a strangled yelp. Plainly shocked he could only cradle his wrist and stare as Johan coerced his aching muscles to stoop and retrieve the knife.

The man saw Johan's hand close around the handle and saw the murder in his eyes. He ran for his life, with difficulty Johan gave chase. Paroxysms of excruciating pain ran up his leg every time he put weight on it and his lungs laboured under ribs that felt like they were about to crack into pieces, then crumble into dust. The fog pressed insistently and his quarry was consumed by it, still Johan pursued him blindly, he could hear his boots rapidly smacking the pathway, gradually growing more distant. The road divided, knowing that the masked man was faster and gaining ground, Johan quickly guessed the left fork, hoping it was the right choice.

It didn't take long for Johan to realise he'd made a mistake. The man had disappeared like a wraith as if he was as immaterial as the cold mists that swirled around the silent streets. Like an old rusted piece of machinery, his abused body ground to a halt. He swore; a real chance of solving the case gone in the blink of an eye. Johan braced himself against a wall feeling pained, frail and weak. He looked at the knife clenched in his gloved hand; it was serrated on one side and had a distinctive fingerguard. Though the masked man had also worn gloves perhaps there were fingerprints or some other evidence that would reveal his identity. But for now he needed to see a doctor.

Not too far away, a shadowy figure emerges from the Stygian depths of a darkened alleyway, before being lost in the clammy embrace of night and fog...

* * *

I'd looked forward to doing this chapter for a while, and I'm pretty happy with it.  
The chapter title comes from a poem by Edgar Allan Poe.  
Sorry, about the violence but I didn't want to do a half-assed war flashback.  
I wanted it to be as realistic and visceral as I could make it.  
I gave Hitler a cameo as well, did anyone catch it?


	7. Patchwork Man

Our Festering Hopes

Chapter Seven

The wind's caress was light as a thief's footstep and a watery sunrise only just peered through the heavy grey blanket of cloud. The puddles on the path caught the pale rays of light and refracted them, making the reflections of the buildings that sprawled all around look twisted and impossibly alien. Early morning birdsong blended with the rumble of traffic and the voices of passerby. In the distance church bells rang out in a languid rhythm.

An endless river of traffic drifted by as Johan walked down the street. The doctor had assured him his leg wasn't broken but had advised him to use a crutch until it healed properly. Johan had declined and instead asked for painkillers which reduced the throbbing ache he experienced with every step to manageable levels. He also had two cracked ribs, a black eye, more bruises than he could count, and a (now bandaged, but still tender) broken nose rounded off the litany of injuries sustained from last night. When he looked in the mirror this morning he'd hardly recognised the patchwork man that stared back at him. Another less serious inconvenience was that his suit had been ripped and torn in several places. All his others were at the dry cleaner so he'd been forced to wear the one with the embarassing whiskey stain near the crotch, courtesy of Ilsa.

Johan had not been intimidated by the masked attacker's warning and if anything it had made him even more determined to solve the case. He wondered at the identity of the man, he suspected the fellow may have been sent by von dem Bach to rough him up. Or maybe it was one of Austerlitz's cronies; perhaps the crimelord was playing some elaborate double-bluff? It could just as easily be Scharnhorst looking for some revenge or else some unknown party, he supposed. Whoever it was he would find out and they would pay for it.

He could hear a great commotion; music and shouting. Johan turned a corner to see the towering mass of the Berlin cathedral. Shafts of sunlight played over its towers and vast domes and shone through the stained glass windows making them shimmer iridescently like a box of precious gems. The effect made the impressive structure look like some phantasmal palace from a child's fairy tale. Though no great appreciator of art Johan had to admit the sight was beautiful.

He saw now the source of the din, the road was thronged on both sides with teeming masses of people who cheered and waved their swastika flags enthusiastically. A parade was in progress and he'd arrived just in time to see the tail end of it. Rows of tanks trundled by, their cannons raised high and the black-uniformed commanders standing out of the turrets to wave to the adoring crowd. When they'd passed, line after line of Hitler Youth marched down the road, rifles at their shoulders, and their chests thrust out proudly as the brass band played a bombastic marching tune behind them. Overhead fighter planes flew by in perfect formation. The crowd's excitement rose to a new fervour when an open-topped Mercedes cruised into sight. People climbed up lampposts and onto pillars as fathers lifted their children onto their shoulders, all to get a better view of the occupant. Johan craned his neck but couldn't see over the mob, he struggled through the multitude of bodies and continued on his way as the crowd howled their adulation.

Hampered by the sheer numbers of people clogging up the streets Johan finally made it to the police station. He entered, aware that his bedraggled appearance was drawing glances. Seeing Sergeant Waldorf chatting with Annika, the receptionist, he tried to cross the hall without them noticing him. Too late, Waldorf caught his eye and beckoned for him to join them.

He was a squat, chubby man with a bulbous nose that looked like it had been moulded out of clay by a novice sculptor, beneath which was a wispy mustache that almost looked pencilled on. Waldorf was slowly but surely going bald and was terrified of anyone noticing and so he perpetually wore his police issue helmet even while indoors. As usual his shirt was wrinkled and untucked.

Annika by contrast was as tall and thin as Waldorf was short and fat, she was approaching middle age and wore her dark hair tied back in a severe style. Her glasses were perched on the very tip of her long nose, and she had the habit of staring over them, so much so that Johan wondered what purpose they served at all. She could be rather irascible and had always reminded him of a strict old librarian.

"Heil Hitler!" said Annika, by way of greeting. Then without giving him a chance to respond, "Good heavens! You look like you got in a fight with a panzer."

"I had a...disagreement with someone. I don't really want to say anything else."

Annika looked crestfallen, no doubt that had limited what gossiping she could do.

"Did you piss yourself too, Johan?" asked Waldorf with a guffaw, pointing at his trousers.

"You better watch that mouth of yours Waldorf, I'm a Lieutenant now," said Johan, only half-joking.

"You've got yourself in hot water again Otto," crooned Annika, before turning to Johan, "Somebody left a letter in for you this morning."

She passed him a white envelope with a wax seal.

"Who left it in?"

"It was a man with a scar on his cheek, he didn't leave a name. He was quite rude about it actually," said Annika, giving him a disapproving glare as if he was the one who'd slighted her.

"Well thank you. If you'll excuse me I must be on my way. Oh and Waldorf tuck in that shirt. You're in a police station not that shit strewn pigsty you call a house."

Waldorf pouted like a smacked child and fumbled to comply with the order as Johan stalked off.

The first thing he did was drop the knife he'd procured last night in for analysis and fingerprint testing. He also made a mental note to obtain a replacement PPK from the armoury at some stage today. On his way to his office he broke the seal and unfolded the letter, it was short and written in elaborate loopy handwriting.

_Lieutenant Müller,_

_My brother Oswald was arrested at his home yesterday evening. Last night he died in police custody. "Shot while trying to escape they said," the reality is he was tortured and beaten to death. The funny thing about the arrest was that I recieved no advance warning from you, whatsoever. I thought we had a deal. You've made a huge mistake Lieutenant and you will reap what you've sown._

_-A_

Johan's heart sank, the letter began to shake in his trembling hands, he was a dead man. Oswald Austerlitz was a high-ranking enforcer in his brother's crime syndicate, Johan had known about the operation to apprehend him but his principles forbade him to tip the crimelord off. Austerlitz's wrath would surely know no bounds, he would stop at nothing until Johan was no more, and it was unlikely to be a quick painless death either.

Within him fear spread her wings, Johan didn't know what to do. He considered reporting the letter, but that would eventually reveal his clandestine meeting with Austerlitz, besides could he trust von dem Bach? No, the only thing to do would be to flee. But where would he go? All his life had been spent in Berlin, there was nothing for him anywhere else. In any case he was loath to leave Clara's murder unsolved; he had to find out what had befallen her. He made a decision; he would leave the city only after he'd cracked the case. If Austerlitz caught up with him first, so be it, without Clara life didn't mean much anyway.

It was the first time he'd ever admitted that to himself, strange what events could bring on an epiphany. Johan opened the door of his office and sat down behind the desk, he pocketed the letter and searched for a cigarette, he had none left. He stayed there brooding in a fugue-like state for he didn't know how long, until Bauer let himself into the office.

He paused at the threshold for a second.

"Christ, what happened to your face?"

Johan told him.

"Christ," said Bauer again. "D'you know who it was?"

"Not yet, but we might learn something from that knife. There's a peculiar fingerguard on it, we may be able to trace it."

Bauer cogitated on that, then started staring at him strangely.

Vexed, Johan followed his line of sight.

"It's not what it looks like. Someone spilt a drink on me, okay?"

"All right, all right, I believe you."

Bauer seemed to be able to tell there was something not quite right with his superior, he fiddled with the swastika badge on his lapel, "Dr. Falkenrath told me you should give him a call," he said after a while.

Without another word Johan picked up the telephone and dialled the number, he tapped the desk impatiently with a pen as it rang, finally Falkenrath picked up.

"Hello?"said a reedy voice.

Johan cut straight to the point.

"This is Lieutenant Müller, you wanted to speak to me?"

"Müller, Müller ah yes now I remember. You wanted me to examine a shotgun, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Twelve gauge, single-barrel?"

"That's the one," said Johan beginning to get impatient.

Over the phone he heard the sound of papers rustling.

"Yes, I found something that might interest you."

A short pause.

"Well, what is it?"

"Tiny droplets of blood on the barrel, miniscule amounts, very hard to detect but present nonetheless. I took a sample from the body of Ms. Timmermann; the bloodtypes were a perfect match."

Johan's fist closed tightly around the phone, anger welling up inside him.

"How accurate are your tests?"

Falkenrath sounded insulted, "Lieutenant the chances of the tests producing a false reading are approximately three million, five-hundred and eighty-thousand to one."

"That's good enough for me, thank you Doctor."

"Wait, there's one more thing. I tried to look up 's file; I couldn't find anything, nothing at all. It's as if Clara Timmermann never existed."

"That's pretty unusual. You think maybe they lost it?"

Falkenrath gave a wheezy chuckle, "I should think not Lieutenant, the Nazis are the most efficient bureaucrats in history. They don't lose anything, unless of course they want to."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm saying that someone wanted the very memory of her erased, and I don't why."

Theories each wilder than the last chased each other around Johan's head, did von dem Bach have the contacts to arrange this, was Clara involved with the Communists, the Anti-Nazis or maybe even some foreign secret service?

That outlandish idea might go some way to explaining her numerous secret midnight dealings.

He thanked Falkenrath and hung up the phone.

Johan collected himself for a moment before turning to Bauer, "Clara's blood was found on Scharnhorst's shotgun, he's the killer. I knew I couldn't trust that slimy bastard!" growled Johan.

Bauer pulled a face and held up a hand to calm his superior.

"Wait a minute, all that proves is Scharnhorst's shotgun was the murder weapon. He might not have pulled the trigger."

Johan knew this to be true, again he'd let his prejudices against Scharnhorst cloud his judgement.

"Still, the son of a bitch has a lot of explaining to do," said Johan grimly."Come on, we'll take my car."

He rose from his chair and left the office, Bauer following close behind.

The door leading to the motor pool was on the other side of the foyer and as they made their way over, Johan felt a hand on his arm and a voice in his ear.

"Lieutenant, wait."

It was Ilsa, looking resplendent in a figure-hugging white dress with a floral design. Her blonde hair was worn up and mostly hidden by a jauntily tilted hat decorated with flowers.

"I've been looking for you. I have some more information."

"We don't really have much time now. You can tell one of the other officers," replied Johan without breaking stride.

"It's about Scharnhorst.

Johan stopped dead and faced her. Ilsa took a sudden intake of breath and he could see her expression flit from shocked, repulsed then concerned as she saw the bandaged nose, black eye, cigarette burn, and assorted nicks and bruises that blotted his visage.

"You've certainly been in the wars. What happened?"

"Nothing much, all in a day's work," said Johan, deliberately laconic. "Now what was it you were saying about Scharnhorst?"

Ilsa tore her eyes away from his injuries and began to speak.

"Well, I've been doing a bit of investigating of my own. Scharnhorst has been up to some pretty suspicious things. There's an abandoned house on Augsburgstrasse that he's been visiting a lot, and I really do mean a lot, two or three times a day. I don't know what he's got there or what he's doing but it must be important to him."

"How long does he stay there?" interjected Bauer.

"Sometimes only a few minutes, sometimes hours."

Johan considered that for a moment.

"Hmm, so there's a good chance he might be there now. Can you lead us there?" asked Johan

"Yeah, certainly."

"All right here's what we'll do. Bauer, you and I will go with Ilsa to this mysterious house. I'll have Waldorf go up to Scharnhorst's apartment and arrest him. About time that fat bastard does something other than eat bratwurst and scratch his arse all day."

This being Saturday, Scharnhorst was off work and should be either at home or (if Ilsa was to be believed) at the house on Augsburgstrasse.

Johan could hardly control the anticipation, at last the net was tightening.

,


	8. Showdown on Augsburgstrasse

Our Festering Hopes

Chapter Eight

Augsburgstrasse was on the outskirts, it was once prosperous, filled with up-market shops, fashionable cafés and expensive townhouses. During the Weimar years amid the economic ruin that followed after The Great War, things began to change. The townhouses were sold and became tenements for the poor, who all too soon started to struggle to pay their rent. They were promptly evicted, and not getting enough business to break even, the majority of the shops and cafés closed down. Even before the government bought up the land to build a manufacturing plant most of the properties lay derelict. That was over four years ago, still no construction work had begun and as Hitler focused on rebuilding the army instead, Augsburgstrasse was for all intents and purposes, forgotten.

Johan drove up the deserted street past the rows of lonely grey structures. Many of the abandoned buildings were in a pitiful state of disrepair, windows were broken and on one of the houses the chimney had tumbled down, leaving bricks lying on the path outside. One building in particular caught Johan's eye, probably it had been a shop once before being gutted by fire. The walls were charred black and the roof had all but collapsed, the entrance was boarded up and wooden planks blocked the windows. On one of these the word _Juden_ and a crudely drawn Star of David were scrawled. Elsewhere signs of vandalism and neglect were seen all around, most of the streetlights had been smashed so whether or not the electricity to this area had been cut scarcely mattered when the sun went down. The tramlines set into the road were redundant; service had been curtailed long ago.

"That's the house there," said Ilsa from the passenger seat.

Johan swivelled the steering wheel and pulled in at the side of the road, a short distance away. He and Bauer looked over to the house she had indicated. It was a squarish, ugly and ramshackle structure. The windows were dark and encrusted with what looked like generations worth of dirt. The garden was overgrown and choked with weeds. Rubbish lay amongst the tall, gently swaying grass. Ivy crawled up the crumbling brickwork of the walls, and the rusty front gate having fallen off its hinges was propped up there too. The roof was missing many slates and the rotting wood of the rafters was exposed, like the ribs of a skeleton. The place looked so flimsy Johan was surprised the whole thing hadn't toppled down from the force of the recent storm.

He climbed out of the car, followed by the others. The corners of Ilsa's mouth rose in an impish smirk as she saw him stand up, "Did you have a little accident on the way, Lieutenant?"

"Oh, don't you start on about it as well. You know, I'm going to make sure you get the cleaning bill," said Johan darkly, glaring down at his whiskey-discoloured trouser leg.

"I'd like to see you try."

"That does it. Now I won't settle for anything less than a brand new suit, cufflinks and all."

Ilsa, not intimidated by the threat just laughed.

Johan's mild irritation vanished and he allowed himself a satisfied smile as he realised the battered black Volkswagen parked on the curb belonged to Scharnhorst. There was no doubt it was his vehicle, Johan recognised the large dent at the back where Scharnhorst had once reversed into a tree while drunk.

"He's here, come on Bauer. Ilsa you wait in the car."

Ilsa didn't seem too enamored with that rather patronising command.

"Why can't-"

"It's against regulations; I shouldn't even have brought you out here. Besides you'd probably be safer, the last time I followed up on one of your leads I nearly wound up six feet under. Thought I'd had my last Cointreau that day."

Ilsa still didn't look pleased but obeyed nonetheless.

No sooner had the car door slammed behind her, Scharnhorst came into view walking to his car, whistling tunelessly. For once he was clean-shaven and dressed semi-respectably in a cheap grey suit. There was a bandage wrapped around his head and his right wrist was in a sling, in his left hand he carried a boxy suitcase.

"Freeze! Drop the case and put your hands up," shouted Johan as he and Bauer drew their Lugers.

Scharnhorst froze in shock, his eyes wide with fear as they approached.

He let the suitcase fall to the pavement and raised his arms in surrender.

"You don't look so good Johan," he taunted, evidently some of the old bravado had returned.

"I could say the same about you. Who did that to you?" asked Johan slyly.

"Nobody, I fell down the stairs."

"I'm sure. You know you forgot your knife last night Scharnhorst, very careless of you."

Scharnhorst flinched as if Johan had hurled said knife straight at him.

"I d-don't know what you're talking about."

"Why'd you kill Clara?"

"I swear to you I didn't kill her!"

"Did von dem Bach pay you to do it?"

"What? No, I told you I didn't do it!"

"We'll discuss it down at the station. Be warned, my methods won't be as gentle as last time."

Scharnhorst bowed his head; it seemed all his defiance had deserted him like air from a deflating balloon.

"Kick that case over to me," ordered Johan.

Scharnhorst sulkily did as he was told.

"Bauer, search him first and then cuff him."

Bauer began patting the defeated Scharnhorst down as Johan holstered his Luger so he could open the heavy brass clasps on the leather trimmed suitcase.

He expected it to contain money or maybe drugs, the reality was far more banal.

There was nothing there except clothes.

Obviously Scharnhorst was planning to skip town, Johan looked through the assorted shirts, jackets, trousers, shoes and belts but found nothing of interest.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bauer in the process of searching Scharnhorst, who without warning lashed his elbow into Bauer's face. There was a crunch of broken cartilage and he staggered back, his nose streaming blood. They struggled and all of a sudden Bauer's Luger was in Scharnhorst's fist, there was a flash of light and a crack as Bauer took a bullet in the gut from point blank range.

All this happened in a matter of seconds.

Johan's hand was a blur as it flew down and undid the flap on his holster, while Bauer spun to the ground. But before he could draw, Scharnhorst turned the gun on him and fired; the shot was just a few inches high and took the fedora clean off his head. Johan threw himself behind the cover provided by Scharnhorst's car, landing heavily as another shot boomed through the morning air, sending birds on the powerlines into flight. Like in an old Western movie, the distinctive, harsh noise of a ricochet screeched out as the bullet struck the concrete surface of the road.

Crouched behind the car, his heart thumping wildly, Johan tried to use the side mirror to gauge Scharnhorst's position. Seeing only sky, and rooftops he returned fire blindly around the back of the vehicle in Scharnhorst's general direction. Scharnhorst replied with a wild salvo that had Johan ducking his head down even further. Bullets punched right through the thin metal of the car to his left and right, there was a hiss of air as one of the tyres burst, and the back window Johan was stooped below shattered, showering him with countless crystalline fragments.

He left cover and stood straight up in plain view. Johan had counted the shots, Scharnhorst's clip was empty. He saw Scharnhorst standing in the garden, his finger clicking fruitlessly on the trigger. Finally comprehension dawned on Scharnhorst's face as Johan took deliberate aim. He whirled around, dropping the now useless pistol in his haste and sprinted for the closest cover: the still open doorway of the old house. The Luger leapt in Johan's hand. Fear had lent Scharnhorst speed and Johan's shots merely exploded a chipped vase on the windowsill and embedded themselves in the doorjamb as their intended target zipped by.

Johan ran over to where Bauer lay prostrate, he cursed himself mentally. He should have cuffed Scharnhorst himself and let the rookie search the case. The younger man was alive, but he was ashen-faced and his boyish features were twisted into a grimace of agony. Bauer was bleeding heavily and his starched shirt had been turned from a virgin white to a deep red hue.

"Move your hands, I need to see how bad it is," said Johan.

"Am I going to die?" gurgled Bauer weakly, blood flowing from his mouth and down his chin.

"No you're not, this is just a flesh wound," even to Johan these words sounded hollow.

"Don't...lie."

"Really, it's not that bad."

In reality the wound was severe, but Bauer might still have a chance...maybe. The bullet had not penetrated straight through, but this was not a particularly good thing; if it had lodged itself in the spinal cord, even if Bauer did survive he would most likely live out the rest of his days as a cripple.

"Jesus, I heard gunfire, what happened? Where's Scharnhorst?"

It was Ilsa.

She stopped, a hand over her mouth as horrified eyes took in Bauer's bloodied figure.

Johan was glad to see her, "Ilsa come here, I need you to put pressure on the wound. It's to stop the bleeding."

Ilsa looked aghast at the idea, "I wouldn't know how-" she began.

"Here, like this."

Johan took her dainty hands in his and pressed them onto Bauer's stomach, the blood washing them crimson. Bauer hissed and squirmed in pain at the touch.

"Just keep doing that, I'm going after Scharnhorst. I also want you to get on the radio in my car and call for backup, tell them to bring an ambulance, he could go into shock."

Johan bent down and retrieved Bauer's gun, he reloaded it and left it beside Ilsa.

"Just in case Scharnhorst doubles back. If you see him don't hesitate, just shoot. Safety's off so all you've got to do is point and click."

Ilsa nodded, pale but determined.

"Good luck, Lieutenant."

Johan forced a smile, "I'll be fine. I still have to collect that suit you owe me, remember?"

At this he turned and walked across the verdurous, untamed garden, towards the darkened doorway, which yawned wide like the mouth of some great beast waiting for fresh prey. A lone magpie cawed at him as he approached. He knew he should wait for backup, Scharnhorst was trapped like a rat. He knew that would be the logical thing to do, but still his feet inexorably carried him forward. He wanted to be the one to apprehend Scharnhorst, and he would bring him in alive or dead. Johan entered the house.

The reek of decay was strong, as if it oozed from every crevice, every crack in the bare walls and every hole in the floor. The air itself seemed to hang heavy with a sepulchral aura. He looked around, no signs of Scharnhorst. The house was quiet as a crypt; all he could hear was his own breathing and rapid heartbeat. His footsteps seemed deafeningly loud on the rotting floorboards as he approached the first room, Luger in hand and ready to fire.

The heavy wooden door gave a death-rattle creak as Johan pushed it slowly open. It seemed as if less light than was normal penetrated the begrimed window, almost as if the dank air devoured most of the beams which dared enter its forlorn domain. The disembowelled couch, and mouldy carpet rolled up against the crumbling plaster of the far wall, testified that this had once been the living room. Speckles of paint that had flaked from the ceiling lined the floor amidst a wretched litter of dirty blankets, broken crockery and yellowed newspapers. In the corner was a brownish-red splatter on the floorboards. Johan jumped at a sudden clattering noise from behind, he whirled around, to see that it was only the shutters banging in the breeze outside the window. He lowered the pistol in relief, and started across to search the next room.

This room was darker still, and it took Johan's eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom. The kitchen window was boarded up and the wind whistled through the flaws between glass and ledge. Only a few rays of sunlight pierced through the gaps in the boards, scoring the cracked tiles above the sink with bright lines and illuminating the countless dust particles that floated into their path. A pile of rusted pots and pans were heaped on the draining board beside a tap which dripped intermittently into a pool of brackish water. The stench of decay had thickened so it was now cloying as incense.

A noise from upstairs compelled Johan to leave and start up the rickety staircase. Despite his efforts at stealth the steps groaned in protest at his every tread. Damp patches stained the walls and the spindly wooden bannister appeared warped from water damage and felt brittle beneath his touch. He reached the landing and heard another noise, from behind a door to his right. There was no mistake this time; Johan was certain that had been a footstep.

A tsunami wave of adrenaline rushed through his body as he approached the door. He reached into his pocket and rubbed the bullet he carried for luck, until anticipation of vengeance and answers spurred him on. Johan licked his lips and took a deep breath to steady himself, then hauled back and kicked the door in, pistol at the ready. He only had a stunned instant to absorb what he saw within, before he had time to process it he was hit from behind with a mighty blow.

Like a giant pendulum the world swung forward into darkness, as oblivion claimed him.

* * *

I couldn't resist throwing in a shameless cliffhanger.  
It is the penultimate chapter after all.


	9. Revelations

Our Festering Hopes

Chapter Nine

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

-Byron

_A dizzying vortex of noise and colour swirled all around him, his body was falling. Desperate, he flailed through the rushing air, but could find no purchase as time and space whipped by. The riot of sensation and perception engulfed him. Phantasmal shapes loomed and contorted all around. Amidst the whirlwind; whispers from the past and possible futures. Through the deafening, twisting kaleidoscope, scenes of places he knew unfurled before being lost as they transformed into landscapes sinister and strange. Faces foreign and familiar leered out as images flashed by at breathtaking pace. Snippets of his life sped before his eyes, he saw himself in the church at his brother's funeral, then he was a child again, playing in the sunlit garden as his mother looked on. That idyllic setting was quickly replaced by the gruesome cacophony of the trenches. Now he and Clara were laughing in a pub, they almost shared a kiss just as the scene swirled away to the twinkling lights of Berlin at night. The focus shifted to an old house which came closer and closer until he floated right through the bricks and mortar, up a gloomy stairway before drifting to a halt behind a locked door..._

Johan's eyelids flickered open. The pain came in waves, coursing through his head where he'd been struck. His vision was blurry and objects swam up to greet his groggy eyes. He saw faded, peeling wallpaper, limp, moth-eaten curtains and a tapestry of cobwebs woven over the darkened window. A mattress with some blankets and pillows beside some bags and cases were across from him. He lay on the floor of this decrepit room, staring up at the naked lightbulb that swung from the ceiling, making the shadows waver all around.

Then he remembered: Scharnhorst, Bauer, the shootout, everything. As if on cue he became aware of two figures standing to his side. One was Scharnhorst; the other was still shrouded in shadow. Now the second figure stepped forward out of the gloam and was bathed in the pale light from above. Johan's mouth fell open in shock as their eyes met through the veil. It was Clara Timmermann that stood before him.

He tried to speak but words failed him as his mind raced in a futile attempt to explain what he saw. Was he concussed? Or going mad? Was this apparition merely brought into being by the blow to his head? Could it really be her? Clara looked as radiant as ever, her strawberry lips were moist, her lustrous, raven hair fell in waves down her back and framed by long lashes her dark eyes shone. She resembled a Renaissance painting of an angel. Dressed in a silk blouse, heels and a white skirt she appeared solid enough. Then the phantom spoke.

"Poor Johan. You just couldn't stay out of it, could you?"

The husky voice was familiar but the tone was not. The faint Austrian lilt Johan had always found irresistible was there, but instead of being light and breezy her words were layered with menace.

It was now that Johan noticed the gun, _his_ gun gripped in her hand. She took aim and down the muzzle of the Luger Johan saw the abyss. He was too astonished to move and too stunned to feel much fear as he took what must be his last breaths. Clara's aim wasn't steady and the barrel made little circles in the air as her hands shook. For what felt like an age, Johan teetered on the brink.

"You're taking too long!" admonished Scharnhorst, throwing aside a hefty length of wood and snatching the Luger from Clara's grasp.

Something clicked within Johan's beleaguered mind, this would be his only chance. Quick as a viper's strike his hand reached the ankle holster where his new PPK was stowed. While still lying prone, he drew and fired one-handed in a single movement like a gunslinger in the Old West, just as Scharnhorst squeezed the trigger. The gunshots reverberated around the room and grew louder with each echo off the walls, as if an entire regiment had let loose. Johan's aim was true, while Scharnhorst's was not, evidently panicked by Johan's explosion into motion he fired too early and the shot whizzed by Johan's head. The first bullet caught Scharnhorst in the neck, blood splashed down his torso and onto the worn floorboards, the second shot hit him square in the forehead, splattering the wall behind with dripping ichor. Scharnhorst dropped to his knees, his dead eyes accusing, as twin rivulets of red dripped down from his mouth. His finger spasmed and the Luger spoke again, propelling a bullet through the dusty floor. This would be Scharnhorst's last act; he keeled over backward with a thud, and lay still in a slowly widening pool of crimson.

Clara rushed over to his side.

"Paul!" she cried.

Johan got to his feet with difficulty, his head still throbbing and adrenaline still racing.

"Get away from there!" he boomed.

Clara flinched at the command and her fingers withdrew from the dropped pistol they'd been inching towards. Slowly she got up and backed away.

"What the fuck is going on here?" demanded Johan.

Clara ignored him; her lovely features were etched with despair as she stared at Scharnhorst's remains.

"Did you hear me? I said I want some answers! Start from the beginning and tell me everything."

She took a deep breath, "All right, from the beginning," she said quietly.

"First thngs first, that body you found at the factory wasn't me. Obviously."

"Who was it then?"

Clara sat down on the mattress, and haltingly at first but then with increasing confidence started to talk, as Johan listened, incredulous

"Some Polish hooker, I think the name was Anja Devlana. We chose her because she had a similar body type to me. Paul picked her up and brought her back here, he hit her over the head but then started to get cold feet. I didn't know if she was alive or dead at this point but I took the shotgun, pointed it at her face and then...then she opened her eyes and I just panicked and fired, then I fired again until there was nothing left."

She shuddered, her eyes staring vacantly into space, "It was horrible, I hated it and I hate myself for doing it. Every time I close my eyes I can still see that girl's face."

Clara composed herself for a second or two before continuing.

"Then we put her in my clothes and planted my and my stuff on the corpse. Paul dumped the body. He also pulled out all her teeth and dumped them in the Elbe just to be safe, you know, because of dental records. That was one job I admit I didn't have the stomach for," she said, making a face as if recalling an unpleasant dish she'd tasted.

This still wasn't making any sense to Johan; he couldn't imagine the Clara he'd known participating in the acts she described.

"Why did you kill her?"

"I had to get away, disappear."

"But why?"

"Because I'm Jewish."

"You never told me."

"I was careful, I never told anybody apart from Paul."

"How come you never got hassled by the Nazis?"

"By being discrete. Most importantly though I bribed a manager at the census office to 'lose' my file. He was reluctant at first but money and certain...other favours changed his mind."

She shook her head sadly, "How naïve I was to think that would be the end of it. This regime is evil, _Kristallnacht _only confirmed it. There are camps Johan and once you're sent there you never come out."

"Nonsense, those are work camps."

"That's just a euphemism. Believe me I know, back in Vienna my parents were sent to the camp at Dachau. They're d-dead now," managed Clara, wiping a solitary tear from her cheek.

Johan stood in shocked silence as she continued.

"And more and more of these camps are popping up everywhere, it isn't going to stop. There's even one called Sachsenhausen just outside Berlin. About a month ago I got a letter saying I had thirty days to report for immediate transfer to one of these camps. You see in Germany they had no information on me, but after Austria was annexed all the records on Austrian citizens became available to the German authorities, and so that's how they caught me."

"Surely they couldn't be getting away with this."

"They are, the few who know about it just look the other way. Who's going to stop them anyway? The French and the English haven't the balls to stop Hitler; they're just letting him take Czechoslovakia and probably Poland next. Where will it end?"

The coppery smell of Scharnhorst's blood was beginning to intermingle with the sickly-sweet aroma of Clara's perfume and the general reek of decay emanating from the house. The bulb above continued to sway, making the shadows it cast on the walls look twisted and nightmarish.

"Paul and I knew we'd have to get out sooner or later but the summons to the camp made us accelerate our plans. Of course when you're on their lists you can't just get up and leave. That's why I agreed to be Austerlitz's spy in exchange for the fake passport and documents, but he wanted money as well."

"So you seduced von dem Bach, then blackmailed him?"

"Exactly. That old fool, it was almost too easy. It worked out quite well actually; you need money to start a new life so we just kept most of it for ourselves. I knew if all went well we wouldn't be around to have to pay off Austerlitz in full."

"But von dem Bach started to threaten you, didn't he?"

"Not at all, he was meek as a lamb, too afraid anyone would find out about the affair to do anything. I knew you never liked Paul and I knew if I turned up dead he'd be your first suspect, so I scribbled some passages in my diary about von dem Bach getting aggressive and terrorising poor little old me. The idea was the cops would find it when they searched the house and turn their attentions to the chief, leaving Paul and I free to escape off into the sunset."

So von dem Bach really was innocent of everything save for adultery, Johan felt guilty for having doubted him. At this Clara's voice took on a scornful tone, "We didn't figure the cops would be fucking stupid enough to overlook it. That's what Paul was doing at my house when you turned up, he was going to retrieve the diary and turn it in. But you saw one of the tickets to New York, he was terrified you'd put two and two together. He wanted to kill you to make sure we'd get away with it, but I wouldn't let him."

"Maybe you should've."

Clara looked at his scarred, bruised and bandaged face.

"I'm sorry. The last thing I wanted was for you to get hurt but..."

She trailed off, her eyes downcast toward the floor.

"The diary said you were pregnant with von dem Bach's child, I take it that was a lie too?"

"Half-true, it's really Paul's child."

Johan eyed her slender figure, wondering whether Clara was being truthful. She appeared sincere, but recent events had shown that her capacity for duplicity was matched only by her beauty.

"I don't get why you had this elaborate plan, couldn't you have just stowed away on a train or something?"

Clara remained silent for a while, playing with a loose strand of hair.

"Well that's exactly what my sister Claudia tried, she, her husband and daughter had hidden on a train bound for Switzerland, they'd gotten past all the checkpoints and inspections only to be found by Swiss border guards. The Swiss turned them right over to the SS; I don't know where they are now."

Johan didn't have much family left, his parents and brother had died young. He tried to think of some words of comfort, but they wouldn't come.

"Paul told me that our best chance would be if I was crossed off their lists, otherwise they would never stop looking. It wasn't just for ourselves, we had the baby to think about too. That's why we did what we did. We would've been long gone too if the fucking weather hadn't decided to intervene, the Zeppelin flight was delayed for a couple of days due to the storm so I had to hide out here until it blew over. We were just about to leave before you showed up."

After hearing the tale Johan didn't know what to do. The policeman in him wanted to bring Clara down to the station under lock and key and make her answer for the heinous crimes she'd admitted to, the other half of him just wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her until she was breathless.

Clara looked up at him, "So, what happens now?"

"I suppose I have to take you in."

"What?"

"Somewhere that girl had a family, Clara. She probably had hopes and dreams too, and you ended them."

Johan knew that if he were in her position he would do anything to survive. But murdering an innocent girl? He knew that was something that he could never fathom, let alone go through with.

She stared at him, aghast. Her face went pale, and her expression became a portrait of distress.

"You think I enjoyed it? You think I wanted any of this to happen? We had no choice!"

"There were other ways."

Johan retrieved the handcuffs from his belt.

Behind her eyes fear rose like a serpent as he approached. Johan could see the fresh tears glistening on her cheeks.

"No...You can't. Please Johan, they're going to kill me! Doesn't that matter to you?"

He was close enough now to reach out and touch her.

"Don't you get it? They're going to kill me and take the baby! After all these years do I mean nothing to you?"

Johan stopped in his tracks. When he looked at her imploring gaze he didn't see that of a murderess, he only saw Clara. He just couldn't do it. For the first time in his life Johan was about to let a criminal, and a killer at that, walk free. After all she must have been through (he could scarcely imagine how hard it must have been) Johan's conscience wouldn't allow him to arrest a weeping pregnant woman, let alone the one he loved.

He sighed and lowered the handcuffs, "You're free to go."

That pronouncement did little to stop the flow of tears, Clara looked over to where Scharnhorst lay.

"I just...just can't do it on my own," she sobbed.

"I'll go with you," blurted Johan without thinking.

He surprised even himself, he didn't know if what he was doing was right.

They say murder changes a person. Was this woman who'd coolly talked about killing a complete stranger even the same one he'd known before?

She'd planned on eloping with another man without so much as telling him a thing. Did she even give a damn about him?

Johan couldn't answer those questions, but he couldn't change the way he felt.

She rubbed away the teardrops that rolled ran down her face and regarded him in disbelief.

"There's nothing for me here, Austerlitz wants me dead. We'll go somewhere far away from all this, and raise the child together. New York, Buenos Aires wherever you want."

He saw that she was looking at Scharnhorst again.

"I know you probably hate me, but in time maybe you'll grow to feel the same way about me as I feel about you. I love you Clara, I always have."

Clara seemed taken aback by all this. Her eyes were puffy and her mascara was running but to Johan that barely detracted from her loveliness. He wished he didn't have to make his declaration of love while the various cuts and bruises made him look about as attractive as a blocked drain.

"I...I never knew you felt that way."

Johan took her hand in his, "I knew it from the first minute I laid eyes on you. What do you say? Will we leave all this behind and start afresh?"

In another life Johan had always wanted to settle down and start a family. He'd thought the opportunity for marriage and children had passed him by, now here was a chance to fulfil all his old wishes. He felt like he was looking down the barrel of the Luger again as he waited for her response, if she said no, the grim finality would be the same as if she _had_ fired. Though he carried the gun now, Clara wielded all the power and she knew it. Hardly daring to breathe and not daring to hope, he waited, silently willing those perfect lips to form the answer he craved. The reply when it did come was wondrous in its economy.

"Yes," said Clara softly.

A great wellspring of joy erupted within him. It was as if all the stresses, troubles and pain from the last few days had evaporated like the morning dew. The heavy, stuffy air in the room now seemed to hang light, and intoxicate with blissful delight. Though Johan was no believer, he felt like all the choirs of angels in Heaven high were singing in jubilant elation. For the first time in what felt like an eternity he smiled widely, for once in his life true happiness was within reach. He wrapped Clara in a tight hug and leaned in for the kiss, but she pulled back.

"Did you hear that?"

He could feel her heartbeat against his chest.

"Hear what?" asked Johan, annoyed by the interruption.

He had scarcely asked the question when he realised what Clara was referring to; vehicles outside. Johan reluctantly left Clara's embrace and crossed over to the window, he may as well have tried to peer through the wall, it was boarded up solidly. Now there were voices and the heavy tread of footsteps from downstairs. Who were they? Austerlitz's goons? No, more likely to be the reinforcements he'd had Ilsa call.

Clara caught his eye, she looked uneasy.

"It's all right. They're just the police backup I requested. I'll talk to them and before you know it we'll be on our way," said Johan, rubbing her arm reassuringly.

She nodded, "I hope so."

There came a thunder of jackboots stampeding up the stairs. It wasn't policemen who burst into the room a few seconds later, but a dozen burly SS men. They were dressed in their intimidating black uniforms and all carried shiny and sleek automatic weapons. Major Metzger strode in behind them wearing the ubiquitous pin-striped suit and long leather trenchcoat that all Gestapo agents seem to favour while in the field.

Metzger's shrewd gaze flitted around and took in everything in the room, lingering on Clara and Scharnhorst's body for an instant or two.

If the sight of the dead man distressed him he hid it well.

"We came as soon as we could, my men and I were the closest unit available," said the Major.

Johan tried to stifle the scowl that was threatening to show on his features. He cursed mentally, Metzger would be harder to deceive than some police sergeant and he couldn't pull rank on him either. Still there was the chance he wasn't aware of Clara's secret.

"I'm glad to see you sir, Scharnhorst wouldn't come quietly," said Johan trying to appear relieved.

"I can see that. Isn't she dead?" asked Metzger, pointing lazily in Clara's direction.

"That's what we thought. The body we found was actually a prostitute named Anja Devlana, Scharnhorst imprisoned Clara in here. I don't know why, he was insane."

Metzger's stoic expression didn't reveal anything. He mulled that over for a few seconds before addressing Clara.

"And you, my dear? Do you know why he did those things?"

"N-no, he was...he wasn't thinking rationally," she stammered, without meeting his eyes.

"She's still very shaken, the poor girl's went through quite an ordeal," said Johan, eager to distract Metzger's attention from Clara.

Metzger gave a curt nod, apparently satisfied.

"Yes, I'm sure it must have been terrible. Oh, but I think I can shed some light on why Scharnhorst hid here."

Johan swallowed, "W-why do you think he did?"

Metzger didn't answer immediately; instead he produced a small silver case from his pocket and extracted a cigarette. One of the SS men lit it for him before returning to the background.

He puffed thoughtfully for a moment before speaking.

"Are you aware Ms. Timmermann is a Jew?" he said, spitting out the word as if it were obscene.

With that one sentence, Johan's entire world came crashing down all around him. All the long-harboured dreams that just minutes ago had seemed so attainable were now rendered impossible. His crushed hopes lay strewn at his feet like so much rubbish.

Metzger misinterpreted Johan's crestfallen silence as surprise.

"Yes, I only found out last night. Remember in my office when we were talking? That fax I received was from my colleague in Vienna, detailing a list of Austrian Jews, homosexuals and other filth thought to be in Berlin. It is my belief that having effectively faked her own murder, Ms. Timmermann and Scharnhorst intended to flee the country."

Metzger appeared to be revelling in his moment of glory.

"I know this comes as a big shock to you Johan, and I know it's difficult but we all must make sacrifices for the Fatherland. It's for the greater good of the Reich. I'll see that you get a commendation for this, not only did you solve the murder but you uncovered a Jewish fugitive as well. Thanks to the tireless efforts of men like you and I, racial purity is finally within our grasp!"

Johan felt physically ill, he looked over to Clara who appeared little better.

"As for you my dear, I am afraid Dachau awaits," said Metzger, stroking Clara's cheek.

She shrank back as if she'd been scalded by his touch.

The sight filled Johan with rage.

He watched as the SS men took her away from him. Clara didn't struggle; she seemed resigned to her fate, and that was the most disturbing thing of all. He knew her terrified face as they led her away would be etched onto his soul forever.

Johan remembered the pistol in his hand, maybe he could put a stop to this he thought wildly.

But no, brutal, terrible logic told him he had six bullets left and thirteen armed men as his targets.

Metzger took him aside, "I wouldn't be surprised if she was the spy in our midst, Jews are notoriously untrustworthy as you know."

His voice washed over him, Johan tuned it out like a radio broadcast being lost to waves of static.

He felt numb and brittle as glass, it seemed any second now he would fall apart and shatter into fragments.

It still hadn't sunk in; surely fate couldn't be so cruel? For Lady Luck to grant all his wishes with one hand before she took them away with the other was too much for him to bear. Johan dug out the bullet from his pocket; this was supposed to bring him luck.

He let it drop to the floor.

Renown and grace no longer ruled in this world, in their place there was only desolation.

What was left for him now?

Austerlitz had a price on his head, but from torment such as this death would be a relief.

Metzger was talking about the promise of promotion and decorations, as if those things mattered any more.

He realised he was still holding the gun.

His finger twitched near the trigger.

Ignorance is bliss.

The End

* * *

Well, there you have it.  
There's a few things I'm not quite happy with in this chapter, don't know if I chose the right ending and I'm not sure about that surreal bit at the beginning.  
Anyway I hope you enjoyed the story and I hope the twist wasn't too predictable.  
I thought the quote from the poet Lord Byron, sort of summed up the tone of the tale.  
Oh, and I'd love to hear what y'all think.


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